San Cristobal

A gypsy sits in a taverna     joking with a sailor     who has left     bridges and maidens     along islets connecting     many a storied sea.     Ducats tumble from a     cloth bag the way     the gypsy remembers     caravans and the     remembrance of gold     steeled against     warm flesh in     moonlight of his native     Umbria.     Lavender is the coat of dreams     along navy blue hemmings     the colour of the gypsy's     eyes, the blood's     colour progeny whose     men of wealth     both are related to.     The gypsy stares at the taverna     wall and the ducats gleaming     to outside rain.     Men joke at rail depots     where in a like fashion water     splashes mud into little     arches up a riverbank.     Neither has the shallows of     minnows at his command.     Bunched up stubble in the wind     cannot fathom lies     or gender hope    -     it is lhe province     of the mind,     the coinage of perhaps     a Spaniard on discovering     San Cristobal, one's own     sieglo oro in fortune     squandered in sunlight     with only the sweating     Appolosa still straining     on this, the last     taverna ride.