of an anemic sun,
the wind blows blustery
from my right,
the north.
I have less base tan
than I should,
and it's the fault
of a fourteenth-
century poetess
who was too good.
Now I lament
the departure
of the sun,
desperate for its
rays, but I
shouldn't, because
sitting here by
the ocean,
I have everything
else.
