Cutler, Bruce 1982

Friday, March 19, 1982

And then your Buick jumps
across the rails as straight
as sonar at a mirror-glint:
there are long rat-tails that kerosene
has swatched across the sky
and a sound
like someone’s strangulation;

– Bruce Cutler, “There is prose in Kansas”

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Spraddle-legging through thistle and dry
dissilient milkweed pods. The bunch grass boiling
up beneath his boots in humps, splaying
like surf along a shore. Cursing himself,
the mumping rifle balls, the slickleaved shade

– Bruce Cutler, from “A West Wind Rises”

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