The cloistered blade of the gypsy
short and cold and unadorned.
Fall of the cards too rapid to follow.

Mingled shouts build, higher;
lashed to the rocking table
forbidding reason and retreat.

This small lullaby, my doves-
who sparkle over rubies in rings-
pay no heed; it's a corner grub.

Until point blank
Sun grows too white. And bound, stung night
cries in disbelief.