Hyacinth

The curvature of these poems pulls you in, like gravity - waking up in bed wearing hip waders, holy static, Coho salmon pink brassieres and the tight black leather of night. Cast after cast, Kyle Harvey bends his pole to the magnet of Monet's sunrise and reels in fresh catches, clenched fists, the ricochet of ravens at play. -- Art Goodtimes (former Western Slope Poet Laureate, San Miguel County Commissioner)