The man was smart.  The animals,
watching, knew it.  The shattering
glass of the universe felt the opposition,
and the understanding was the result
of a fiendish ambition.  There was a
recording.  It time, there was a healing
record; it reached for the few left unwell.
They were floundering until it was
discovered to be the shape of things
drawn with ink.  The deception of empty
hands, which refused to let them drink
the clean water also offered to slay
the daughter.  This forced them all to
worry about forensic relics and lumps of
shattered trust.  Love was hidden away
for the sake of uninterrupted safety.

The month was a short, cold month.
This new poetry was a real month,
but the old months, remembered dimly,
not remembered, were the most
informative.  Reading was like walking,
in contemplation, through the blue light.