After Reading Some Translations of Li Po
By Michael Cuanach

I went to the small hut where you awoke each morning.
Your scrolls were on the table,
your scattered brushes, your favorite inkstone.

The wind moved in the empty trees -
There was no trace of you beside the lake
no footsteps in the early snow.


Lives in New York City and teaches English at LaGuardia Community College. Graduate of Fordham University and the University of Connecticut. Completing his first novel since 1999, The Bughouse. Recently resumed writing poetry after three years immersed in the novel. His poems have appeared in print journals The Bittter Leander review, brownstone rteview, the Ledge, and Grasslands review.


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