Better and better as the nesting dolls go smaller,
Teasing us with the idea of a prize,
The wonder that is only the smallest doll,
Solidly holding nothing,
A lesser facsimile of the large original
Beckoning us down this path with its babies.

Like Russian crime,
Everywhere in line
Where empty shelves and
Useless currencies stare back at us.

I am no dystopian.
See what brought us here,
Poised over the end of our pens
With ears and eyes attuned
To the slightest startle of birds and animals,
The twitching skin of the cow and
The nocturnal eyes appreciating the night life.

We take our dreams over easy and
Dip toast in the running yolk.
Bright sun not quite yellow bright, or white bright
But in the morning radiant,
In the evening suffused,
Seeming to touch the air,
Enliven our nostrils to the cold and pine scent,
Food scent, look of distance like a Leonardo background
Effortlessly moving along all of the plots for the real
In so many lungs brushing with desire.

It is there in our wants that we need to look.
There in our origins of footfall and animalia
That the tiger still crouches,
The fish school balls and
The threat looms.

By Rolf Stavig, 2-20-2021