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

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Journey Late at Night

My little boat unmoored,
I’ve drifted under stars,
but do not see the Lord,
just Artemis and Mars.
 
Above the deep, dark lake,
the moonlight’s never said:
dawn is about to break
and heaven turn bright red.
 
Across the waves, an owl
has borne away its prey,
and something on the prowl
blasphemes the light of day.
 
The hope a mooncalf follows
is sacrifice for slaughter,
and yet the wings of swallows
still skip across the water. 
 
 
September 2010
first appeared in The Pennsylvania Review

 
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© by Leo Yankevich
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