A Tolstoy

Became a farmer of the gentleman sort.

Wanted to examine scientifically the space

between his fields of visual perception:

Concentrated upon the light which spattered

harmlessly on the bridge of his nose;

Remembered the pens he had shattered in between two stones out of spite.

At an age when he should have known better,

he experienced a kind of mid-life crisis,

and like the rest of us would have put aside

all that he had done as somewhat useless and sophomoric.

Now the paper vibrated with an autumnal resignation:

a listless canter across the fields, an un-harvested leaf,

a disconsolate flopping in the breeze.

Swelled air: a yeast of fresh cut hay.

Let us will the world, including these sheets,

to obey our commands. There is no denying.

Even the muse of a Beethoven can lend itself to asceticism.

Spare sounds; soliloquies of silence, space;

a cautious numbering of hours. He smiled grimly.

applied pen to paper; Wrote a Kreutzer Sonata.