The bark opens the bite of Russia.
                  Two marks thumbed into
                  providence, bled dry under
                  her palliative snowfall.
                  Idless Valley waits for
                  Aspen, counts the blind
                  static for heaven’s form.

Three Russian lunar cycles design
                  the syllabic structure,
                  how the tongue rolls
                  the digraph against
                  saponification’s rub.
                  Proper pronunciation
                  requires the national

accent.