they come to you in all their beauty, empty handed as any refugee or
or the haggard beggar almost braving the winter. they wear bells and bracelets and sing like
no one else, wailing and laughing their tales with their faux gypsy eyes, you a gulley
of warmth who smells of cinnamon, of lilies of the valley in springtime or some other respite.
although you too have slept in wind-weathered tents, on beaten earth floors, have
crossed borders with the wrong papers or coins, ridden your silky haltered pony
through a chain of islands where none have ever seen such a girl, so milky-leggedand fearless, it doesn´t quite tally the same. how to look at these sweet boys, right in the belly of the eye, take them, believing for a moment what they have seen or said. & then move on.