It made me feel small, like a husband, br and I never married, never owned br br a table worth turning over, china br worth shattering, linen worth blood br br from the cut hand I sucked and cursed br and wrapped in a torn shirt, in a pocket. br br Can't they make it new again, those bees, br those communist women at their weaving? br br It was only the long lines, the slow, br enforced pace, solemnity, cold white glitter; br br I was only too proud to eat cold history, br to stand in the breadlines at the tomb; br br I only declined the feast in the mausoleum br as Yesenin did, who wrote his regrets in blood.