I don’t think they’ll find the new weaving
anywhere finer than truth.
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.