The hope a mooncalf follows
is sacrifice for slaughter,
and yet the wings of swallows
still skip across the water. 

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Crow, the doves descending on the square
have sullied your name, cooed gossip to wealthy tourists,
their gullets stuffed with handouts, while you soar
over the oaks with dreaming clouds, with the glare
and glimmer of the distant but holy sun
in your misunderstood eyes, your paeans one
with the wind. Yet it was you who, perched on the shoulder
of Jesus, watched him suffer and heard him cry,
and it was you who saw the enormous boulder
moved, and you who saw him enter the sky.
first appeared in London Poetry Review, November 2009
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© by Leo Yankevich