Gypsies
the story of a cross-country journey
Crystal ships play over open roads
Of rocks of fire and surrendered games
Governed by signs only locals can read.
Cows wander -- we wonder
And write and talk and chew.
Laugh about fences and kitty litter.
Names and places scattered, forgotten
Like the pieces of gum and sunflower seeds
Under the seat where Snowy hides and hibernates.
Following red lines, blue lines -- spread
Like numbered blood vessels crossing, meeting
In two hour increments. Break time. Stretch.
Romanian gypsies lost in potato land
(Where there are no potatoes) buy antifreeze
And look for Snickers as dust snickers and whispers.
Dust melts and is pelted, and flows into fire
Laced by gray, brown, black fingers of time
Reaching and grabbing for fallen pieces.
Mother loses grip -- fire tumbles. Becomes flat
Rolls with the wind which stirs the boardless lakes,
And forgotten homes are eaten, worn, faded.
Miles of nothing. Of everything (except a rest area)
As lights flash and squirm and go unseen.
Boulders, rocks, spring and fountain
Jump up, stick up, reach up to rabbits on pigs
Flying in the sky. Over mountains to the sun.
Mountains on fire quickly steamed by falling ice
Which flakes and feathers and turns lips blue
And purple as Intrigues drive and gypsies laugh.
Road ends, park ends, water continues. With flashes
And crashes and splashes -- the sky comes loose.
Shaking dark with kisses of light (stars?)
A stop. A smoke not felt, tasted in the sun.
The final stretch marked by clouds, gongs, tumbling.
Tumble, like weeds, like tumbleweeds into the Beacon light.
Home of gypsies who stop wandering. For now.
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