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

The Official Website of the Leading Formalist Poet 

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Last Spring

  Take the forsythias deep within, each leaf, and when

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Journey Late at Night

My little boat unmoored, I’ve drifted under stars, but do

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Old Meerschaum Pipe

  A friend sent a pipe made from petrified sea

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Saturday Market

  Yabka, apples, slivki, plums. She points to fruit with

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© by Leo Yankevich
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