Sleeping with Tolstoy

Sleeping with Tolstoy

 

At the end of the day, I sit cross-legged

on my sacred ground, on the bed that held me

through summer storms and cross-eyed dreams;

And there, before the heavy sleep descends,

I latch my eyes to the printed scrawls of Tolstoy, 1865,

who, in his desperation, hid the ropes and knives

inside his house for fear that he might take his life

for lack of knowing the point of light, the reason for his own exhale,

the cocooned mystery of conscious thought.

 

And I, just twenty years on this fair side of the spinning coin

catch his words in my throat as if they were my own,

longing to shout them into my pillowed throne,

into my audience of original discovery�"

original to me, yet older than the primal grunts of so-called ‘man’

lost in the afterthought of history;

I want to say, “I am alive,”

to squeeze my fists into the crinkles of my spring-green sheets

and to sing with the unison of a soul since rested,

but no�"

 

I close the book and close my eyes

and convince myself I am satisfied.