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

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Old Meerschaum Pipe

 
A friend sent a pipe made
from petrified sea foam,
froth that was life’s first home.
A bearded craftsman’s blade
 
carved it into the face
of man: the progeny
of an amoeba, the
image of his race.
 
It sits for all to see,
like a bust on the shelf:
in-cognizant of self,
yet part of the same sea,
 
its beauty and its scars,
its yellow stain and reek,
the wrinkle on its cheek:
the stuff of dreams and stars.
 
September 2010
first appeared in The Pennsylvania Review
 
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© by Leo Yankevich
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