SWING‐SHIFT RUCKUS

4 6 Y S W I N G - S H I F T R U C K U S K A T H L E E N W I N T E R cool mud a cut whose red hugs bone where slag rock sank through his leather hide below an eye all spilling out from Larch’s bar when their tough words took bite to spoil the blue kiss of our drink bruise each man’s wavering cloud of self frog-quick to leap hot for the throat of him who’d doubt its strength say Dog – enough to start it ...