I loved the photos by Diane Arbus
All those broken people
Pinned within her lens
Like faded butterflies
And two-headed moths
On a microscopic slide.
The Giants bent and crippled,
The Little People smug and stretched.
Faces creased with age or insanity,
Sometimes tainted by lost humility
Or shamed by shattered humanity.
Tucked in mock femininity.
Flagrant female forms
With popping breasts
And pouting lips
And deadness in their stare.
Captured joy in the limited.
Cruelty in the fool.
And distance in the desperate hugs
Of dispirited couples.
Crippled witches in wheelchairs,
Hollow haunts of Halloween and
The somehow sexless exposed bodies
Of nudists unnaturally natural.
And then the last image
The last and lasting one
Of a shaky hand popping pills
And then the slash and glistening
Blood on blade and wrist.
And the blackened shutter.