Spare me the yellow loneliness
Of scorched afternoons, that gape like private deserts.
Spare me my skull, swathed in a sulphur dazzle
Of vindication (but not my vindication):
Where chokes a flightless, an imprisoned bird –
And on the inside: it’s all dark.
You can’t get it right for Depressives. In the winter, they crave sunlight. In the summer, they cower away from whatever might overload their senses.