So the pile grew over successive months:
Books in the language
Of science and malady,
The pages busy with tri color markings.
And the long nights with days
That were not long enough.
We dissected in unhushed voices,
Our fuzzy notions made real in flesh.
And when it was time to leave
And enter the night of stars,
I could only think
Of the tang
Two blocks away down on Woodward.