Today the clouds scudded by like glass-bottomed boats.
This afternoon, a few dozen raindrops
The size of grapes
Ended their brief lives, only
To enter a new one
As a stain
Or a pilgrim
In a puddle.
Tonight, the crickets sing
Over the condenser unit
And fans blow away
The house's introspective heat.
August:
There can never be a sweeter moment,
Whose cool evenings
And humid days
Promise death,
Then life everlasting:
The palimpsest of repose,
The Garden of Eden
Whose gates go unguarded:
The angels with fiery swords
Have tickets to the game,
And afterwards,
A party
On the swankiest
Ring of Saturn.
--Mr. Gobley
