By this point in autumn,
the moribund sun
has begun to take its
own appearance
a little too self-consciously—
draping itself
in stiff muslin of clouds
so that none can see
how pale, how
slight it has become
and keeping even lower
as it lopes its daily rounds
to avoid being
spotted—or, heaven forbid,
adored—
by stark, starving crowds
of finches, for instance,
who, instead of singing it
sumptuous hymns,
are compelled to dart and argue
on the dusk-
darkened grounds
over cold, hollow husks
of yesterday's bread.