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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The Birch

  The birch beneath My windowsill Stands like a wreath

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Starless

  I fingered the bone, and traced where the axe

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Swallows

  It was once thought that swallows wintered on the

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Swallows

 
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© by Leo Yankevich
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