From Out of Chaos, Form

The last days of August have arrived much cooler and drier, threatening us with September clearly and with stark malice. But that’s the way it is. The one benefit of course is all that confusion from all that heat is finally dissipating. One can begin to arrange random thoughts into some kind of order. Of course, there’s the question of order itself. Is there any such thing? Or is it some such fantasy? At best a temporary stay that lasts at most a nanosecond. And then begins disordering. So we place our words in order:

Sonnet August Twenty-One

At its cooler right and final, August,
nine-month, with catastrophe of stretch,
so life would inescapably indeed
a just more livable into the weather
was July when irrevocable
September was emaciated much
my universe, the breathing why is long
that’s called its incubation of my part
collaborating worst or August me
too soon is every best convinced a wonder
weep, the element and living death
and only younger time in enemy
is fine at insect-eaten and that June
and in the leaves and drier otherwise.

~Rivers 2005 Son

And then watch them disorder:

Sonnet August Twenty-Two

In that final stretch of August, cooler,
drier, much more livable and right,
when time is irrevocably convinced
the fine catastrophe that’s called September
is indeed so inescapable
the weather is collaborating with
the enemy, a younger me would weep
into the insect-eaten and too soon
emaciated leaves and wonder why
my life was only June July and August
long, and otherwise my universe
of every breathing part and element
was just in incubation at its best
or at its worst a nine-month living death.

~Son Rivers 2005

Who’s to know which what is whose reality when. Or vice versa.