Forsaken, fucking in the cold,
eating each other, lost
runny noses,
complaining all the time
like so many
people
that we know
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Last and certainly not least my third favorite R.B. poem. Defenite flow to this poem, how the lines tend to get shorter at the end and it is just one scentence one train of thought.
When you're not "getting" any, sometimes a bitter thought here and there.
Then there is the real Donner Party, who turned to cannibalism in the Sierra Nevada when mid December they tried to journey through the pass, and didn't quite make it.
Who knows, but very interesting, but R.B.
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