Self-Portrait of a Diabetic Life
Forever you find
your fatherin other faces—
a balding head or beard enoughto send you following
Pink is the Tuscan sunset. PinkAre the Vietnamese monk patesBobbing under Piero’s True Cross.Pink is plenty, pink is joy.
A stifling heat—the air heavy—and all around the loud, wet forest knotting the gaps in its own sound.
A peace long earned, then broken;
We’re a worried bunch, we Americans. We’re anxious. We’re gloomy, even doomy. We’re angsty, despairing, depressed. There’s a widespread sense that things are certainly not right with the world, and perhaps not right with us. If Dickens were...
