These poems were full of broken glass and water—which was not clean water—and scaly things that moved in the dark. There was a recurring image that seemed to sum it all up somehow, of a thing in the depths. Curtis couldn’t quite tell what it was. It came in a bright flash of scales, a dark gleam, or a slither against an unwary hand, and vanished again, but it was always lurking, just out of reach, waiting.
