4, 3×8, Waterfall

A myth can happen anywhere,
yes, even here where the black weir
constant as evaporation

As constant as the bird-song thrall
never lets up, always pouring
dark and when the weir is eaten

Still its constancy will shatter –
when all and the weir go up, splat
in the suns final inferno

Thunder out into space and pour
in a wall of material –
Stars won’t know what to make of it