The Shapelessness of Things to Never Come

For the most wanted silhouette in all of Nevada City
It was perfect armed-robbery weather:
A skosh sloshed with heavy hints of fettering fog,
Just enough cloud cover to put a bit of hair on the chest.
Well, as for Clyde,
Apparently he had spent too much time in Iowa Hill
At some rock-bottom point in his arrest-ridden life,
Coughing up bronze shrapnel and butterfly wings off the grid:
Another reprehensible…