TNB: He's Either Crazy or a Poet
His axe was still raised. He glanced away, refusing again to connect, his eyes the same color as the ice. The scene was straight out of a Neruda poem, I thought, the one about the cruel wind slaughtering butterflies. Or maybe something from Eliot? Me and the grump were Prufrocks measuring out our lives with coffee spoons, hollow men engaged in an expiring pursuit. How terribly, terribly sad. I sniffed.