I don't think they'll find the new weaving anywhere finer than truth. —Osip Mandelstam I've tried to sift a truth finer than salt from my mouth. It matters: I get up or I do not. The books can wait, leaves burn themselves these days, and the day begins or it does not. Now wingless, a wasp masquerading as the sun crawls— a harmless razor—across the backlit curtain. No city trembles on the verge of the sea. No stupid bird threatens to dissolve me if I forget my species in the official questionnaire. I could put my ten bureaucrats to their task. The dusting and polishing. There's a point, a mirror for me to enumerate my teeth. Beyond these walls, there's only the snowed-in field, an egg just opened but empty.