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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After the Old Masters

The father looks up to the sky or ceiling (beyond

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The Akkerman Steppe

  I launch myself across the dry and open narrows,

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Obituary

  Today I leaf through the obituaries and find out

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Don Quixote

Suddenly, I am astride a donkey with Sancho Panza. As

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© by Leo Yankevich
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