DOSTOEVSKY
An idiot cannot understand you
your words are the pen knives
that open each sentence to bleed ink
over the historicity of poetry
falling down to rifles of modern prose
but you remain in the shadows of madness
writing out each brotherhood of collapse
the ways of heaven in the gutters of each city
we’ve known, we’ve held in our palm,
there, in your world, love is a black star
she wears no smile, sings no ballad
shares no verse of hopes, smiles
Tolstoy may live in his castles of theology
a bear of strength though you stand outside
in rags, in throes of prophecy
wearing the marks of hell and heaven both
bleeding each poem with a tear
writing that the ways of men are strange.
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