How can you make anything much pretty
when you don’t absolutely despise
ugliness? When you don’t just hate it,
want to tell it to walk to Cleveland
on a springless, pointed pogo stick,
get some kind of nasty cancer and die?
So you can’t, and they think they can,
but this only grinds into your grin:
bitterness is not a sort of sunshine,
though it’s just as bad for the skin.