The Russian

You know it's him because of the scars.

They're not apparent on his skin,

but in the way his arms swing

back and forth to some silent

elegy.

You can tell that his aching

nails have been digging through earth,

finding nothing but sky, and now he asks,

"What the fuck

is going on here?"

but no one hears him,

or if they do they don't answer.

At dusk he dreams of dawn,

and at dawn he dreams of death,

finding no comfort in either, for death

is too much commitment, and dawn

is just a tease.

You can tell by the movements of his eyes

that he's more comfortable talking to himself,

and their dandelion glaze

gives him the appearance of a tired

old hound.

He occasionally walks the forest,

smoking his pipe, and humming Bach,

appearing as a dim shadow

in a hulking gray overcoat.

He carries a flask at all times

filled with cheap vodka, and he shares it with no one

but the trees,who he fancies as dancers

that should be rewarded for their grace.

On Sundays he feeds the crows that gather outside his window,

imagining that they're angels in disguise,

although he doesn't believe in any of that

sacred nonsense.

Next to his bed is a portrait of a woman,

skin fair as moonlight,

acorn hair framing a stagnant smile.

He hardly remembers who she is anymore,

but the sight of her sends him to sleep every night

knowing that the world isn't as harsh

as the vodka

makes it seem.