Issue 28, Summer-Fall 1962
In a world where no one knows for sure
I roll my blanket for the snow to find:
come winter, then the blizzard, then demand—
the final strategy of right, the snow
like justice over stones like bread.
“Tell us what you deserve,” men often said.
My hands belong to cold, my voice to dust—
nobody’s brother. With a gray-eyed stare
the towns I pass repeat my hometown’s claim: