Poetry

Tufted like whips
vines taper down
in wobbly bliss.

Grapeskins
stretched so thin
one can see in and in.

Wine runs out
the spigots and spouts
of this duchy.

The inn has no more rooms--
three, maybe four
sleep on the floor.

There have been warnings:
in a lamp of fog
a bell tolling.

The grain is in
the wind turns cold
where shall I go?

Tu Fu
Li Po
where shall
I go?