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Bobbie West
And the Cold Also Rises
backwards, rasping his whispered
rage when deceived
 
poor--stone poor--they labored
and this one, his singularity, grasping
 
not at a thing but its properties
across gloomy miles of sullen water
 
to merge into crowds in faded blue cloth--
men wolfish for mere gaiety
 
as the "dead season" began, a grumble
over endless black coffees
 
near the spot where the bullet would find him

 
 
 
from BLUE BOOK #6

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