For this mock rain is not yours to cool with, half-life so luculent 
weather surrounds like old glass,
                                                  distortion uppermost in chambers 
sight disabled, uppity-mucked and lisping disapproval through 
a resource of panes away and to the third perspective
your feared hands griming into this image of the world
[that we are all limpid] summed up like claps at court.
Yet you wear red well, speeding from castle to castle with sharps
poisoned at the whims of your betters
                                                          unlikely to cross lines 
no more pellucid than a mute jingle or a row of subscribers 
enunciating so clearly they become entangled
in their own rubied throats.