Tolstoy, brim hat, austere of autograph
platinum, stern, the lengthy cheek shaded,
his eyes underneath eye level shadow
leans on a tree that appears a finger
a vein wraps the trunk, casts off a sparkle,
while the master looks into the camera
wearing his gown and searching of gesture,
and seems to weigh or balances himself
a man and a monument both alive
dark clouds crowd the background like a curtain
as they close in around him he looks through
his image and directly for our view
from one side of himself to our own one
the embrace of his love with our union
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