Ext. Dacha. A Russian Country Estate in Disrepair. Dusk.
It’s late. A dog is dead in the street.
Shadows fuss about on the lawn.
Children tickle themselves and fall to the ground:
injury, puberty, or battle-fatigue.
A man in his late twenties – seventies on a bad
hair day – haggard/beleaguered/camouflaged
(any race, but preferably French)
wants to know if anyone has ever arranged instructions
in alphabetical order for how to write poems.