The clarity.

The clarity of my thought consists 
in measured, bent degrees and arcs
by jury, rigged. By judgment, fixed
- because the court hath all such art. 
Or was it heart, to fix such things?
Withal, we all come gathering 
to parse and tease between each slice, 
and so adjust the scales precise.
Just so, adjust the niceties. So
mean, we mean it all. So nice 
we've found a sense 
by such degrees
that fleas and lice 
could slot between 
and drink our life's blood dry,
and clean as ice.