Linda King

the old men still talk of vineyards

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these days

grief bears witness

all translations    imperfect

 

                                                                              the old men still talk

                                                                                            of vineyards

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follow the dirt road

to the lake of no water

everything remains unfinished

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lines of coincidence form

                                                                              in a curious belonging

                                                                                            to unknown peculiars

 

nothing

is purely accidental

 

                                       turn the hourglass

                                                     days are rooms now

 

there is a still clock

on the mantel

 

you must rid yourself

of everything

                                                                 every    thing

                                                                              reduced

 

to bone and dust    you must

maintain a low profile

 

                                                                 hide your hand

                                                                              of aces

 

spend

the last of the money

                     on wine

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That Little-girl Future

 

In force fields of possibility    results may vary.

Don’t give anything too much meaning.

 

With an endless process of revelation

we all teeter on the ledge of language.

 

Let them write the scene    set the stage.

The scripts are revised every morning.

 

Whatever the title    that little-girl future

owes you another reality.

 

One that will keep you from walking

too many miles in the wrong direction.

 

One that is more than a darkness

that magnifies the light.