In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And redd’ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require:
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain:
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Oh sun-
Kiss down on my
Dulcet lips
And give your rays of warmth,
So that I may drool
Yellow from my mouth.
Let my insides be a raging fire and
Break my skin to an amber glow.
Oh sun-
Beam your healing rays of blonde
And let me turn to gold.

Perhaps I'll move to the cardboard box
that sits under the stairs.
I'll say I found a new apartment,
one at no expense.
I'll have my own aerosphere
3rd-class postage stamps,
punched into my knees.
I'll get to know the gloves and folds
that package at my skin-
let the corners of the box
soften into different shapes
and alleviate my fears.