If I should die today, the world has still its sun
and nothing is, my love, less mournful than the sun.
I have ambiguous feelings about piecework.
The country I come from produces too much sun.
I wish to be killed by a fit of jealousy.
Yours. Give me a tank top the color of the sun.
Thinking of death, the last three verses start with I.
Thinking of death’s antipode, they end with sun.
As far as poems are from person, or as near,
so far and near revolve the planets round the sun.
I would love you with such a warm and bright import
that you can say, when I am gone, he was my sun.
Or, if you like, you may love me so totally
that I will say, when you are gone, he was my sun.