Late August

And a quiet autumn will follow 
this blistering denouement 
we used to call summer.

Old man Winter weaves
a silver web of discrepancies
on a seesawing sawtoothed

canyon. Behold! The blood 
of fall billows briefly and 
lies as still as a widow’s

funeral pall. As an ultra-
-crepidarian utilizes 
Google to transplant his

pale thoughts into mine, so does
the white parallel rays of July
cringe and crimp upon the

Gibraltar of mid-September. In fact, Google
will tell you when exactly half of human’s
fertile jewel bakes in beachlight

while the other half, 
dreams up a

riotous spring.

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