“By 1921 (Alexandr) Blok had be-
come disillusioned with the Russian
Revolution. He did not write any

poetry for three years. Blok com-
plained … that his ‘faith in the
wisdom of humanity’ had ended.”

It’s a recurring theme. One need
not look as far as a revolution.
He stands on the bank and looks

across to the other side, to the
side he cannot see, to the graves
— one, a premature death by choice

and the other, a mostly unfulfill-
ed even bitter life, victim to
demons mostly unnamed, but, at

least, given a sliver of a glimpse,
these family, and so, so many others
having struggled only to succumb

without as much as that glimpse or
clue. Then he looks at his Choco-
late Lab asleep by the hearth,

a creature created for love and
who loves instinctively not ask-
ing for much, grateful for a

couple of square meals a day
and let out when nature calls.
It will be sad when the lab

succumbs and is turned into ash,
but not as sad as those in the
graves on the other side from

the bank on which he stands and
from which he continuously looks
but cannot see clearly.