The Evening Is August

Thick virga trails draperies
Across the horns of the Twa Corbies.

Coincidence shapes the perfect
C of old snow below their obscura

And equally, opposite, in Valhalla,
The remnants of ice fields for retreat into mist.

The world has aged
Because it is human

And because it is so inhuman
That the gaps within the lace

Of imaginary memories
Only grow, blown cobwebs

Sailing in sweet summer storms,
Billowing out uselessly

For hardworking spiders, exquisitely
For fools in the god light

That arranges the clouds
And iron bars of sunset.