Sylvia, come, come, come; you were the only, the very woman, the one sick enough of sunlight to take the sun; skinning your eyes of daily lids, your mind of caution and the Golden Mean, you scribbled all the way one droning note, then shed your nothing song as Ariel, deep-breathing death’s strange oxygen, and stared forever into noon. Were you left-handed, did you cast a shadow, what was the clue? Now you’ve tuned our Sirens who goes next, forgetting human form, hungry to learn that manic monotone? Ariel, I sweat and want to burn. Teach me, woman, how you made the change. Nothing is enough. My summer’s winter sun itself is worthless till it’s off or on.