Tolstoy, read as mere words, no intonation,
mere elements of presence, sensation-ibility.
As the wares we learn to form from raw
mater-iality, whenever ifity, brings a bubble.
We, in these times, we all have laughed
as and with, children, in our own times, seeing
bubbles form, and laughing at the rainbowing,
spectral show, this is the basic form, watch it pop.
As spheres and bubbles differ,
so do ideal expressions attempted, as it seems
we be drawn to spend a minute or two per use,
as each thinks each word, and wonders if use,
were not power, what power must be? Knowing
not, we dare guess, as when an old gentleman,
teaches a child, the truth about right and wrong,
first guess, right, aha, sweet… but, what's wrong,
no candy here,
so my reward for seeking must be knowing
this is it, finish the thousand and say,
nothing that feels like answered prayer,
costs more than your time to listen
to lessons learned in Russian winters. So there.
Telling you I planned to tell you... is better told after I finish these thousand doors into summer, through which winters find ways out of hell itself. I hope it helps. Tolstoy lived on earth, but in a far different world.
