a woman from Zurich

That woman with braids severe as her face is lovely
sits down at the cafe to order a cup of coffee.

From Zurich, silk wrapped around her throat
Listens to the gypsies whose music by her floats.

Her head tilted like a crow eyeing sightless sound
turned into a changeling child who would not be found.

Swaying to the music, bent, a willow to the shore
calling for a time since passed long before the war.

The cup meets but never kissed the distaste of her mouth
which turned up to greet the musicians of the south.

She was taken by cabal, taken to the dance
her body seized by movement, her gaze transformed to trance.

That moment was suspended between her glance and mine,
across four rows of tables our hearts were so inclined.

I'll never know this woman in any other tongue
than the Dionysian tune to which the gypsies sung.