8. "Laran"

Rings a halcyon Sunday cold;
   it may rain, tomorrow.
Birds arriving with our fall,
   sloom's brisk haul tomorrow.
Unruly grails will snuff our soft
   high aims and fictions.
I am sobbing in this light,
   by this math tomorrow.

Dusk grows thick in mirror tors:
   it's a crash of wobbly.
Military gibbons fail;
   clocks turn tail tomorrow.
A bard knows only part but swims
   in shifty birdtalk...
Limits winging now shall slay
   Cíbola tomorrow.