Curved Like an Eye, George Perreault's first book of poetry comes from the rural West, a land he describes with a clarity of vision where, as one critic wrote, "the dark impulse of humanity co-exists with the life-affirming force.... That truth comes to us who live in the West. Our vision is long; we can see forever. Our horizon curves like an eye."
From Ragland south: sunpatched wheat, milo, and range land
stitched square with wire and hemmed by sunflowers and hawks.
In the half-deserted towns brindled tankers wobble by
following their own geography under an apparition of rain.
I say I live here for horizons, how everything turns slowly,
tractors combing the soil, bankers deep in abstract currents.
Or that it's like the ocean, barns rising on long swells.
everyone unfurled to weather, nothing wasted, not even children.
That's prettier than true, but tonight I'll sit at that oak table
from my father, eat the warm body of an animal I've known since birth.