They were never really deep.
Satan called me. Let us pray.
When the tanker exploded,
One burned man walked down the road
Muttering incantations.
The illusion of a wave
Formed by discrete particles
Occurs for secret reasons,
One being that particles
Are themselves genuine waves,
Discreteness an illusion
Only betrayed when it’s summed
In significant amounts.
The wave is in the quantum,
And when the game collapses,
A visible wave’s revealed—
Each point in a game, a game
In every point, and all waves
Around—waves in games make waves.
Every point counts in some game.
He had only been trying
To collect some of the spilled fuel
The wrecked tanker was leaking.
Everyone cheats at some games.
This had happened before this,
Other mass deaths at fuel spills.
The burned man walked on, lisping
Through charred lips, his clothes in rags,
His skin already peeling,
Satan called me. Let us pray.
The woods are horizontal.
They were never truly deep.
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