Li Bo and the Woman Clothed in Gold

It’s hard not
to behold
the trembling of the veil

that slight shimmering
at the edge of sight,
as if the world’s covering

could be grasped
and pulled, revealed
as glassy surface, a polished mirage.

Last night, in the
moonlight, I drank
again with Li Bo, who told me

about sitting
on a riverbank
with a woman clothed

in gold, her hands shining
with rain and melting ice.
“I asked her name,” he told me,

eyes burning with mischief
and wine. “Winter,” she said,
and left him weeping as the gray water swirled.

Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely, and several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).

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