(Version)
By Andrew Hutto
“Did I mention the dust?” Rebecca Gayle Howell’s No One Was Born Here
Blithesomeness as a, the, a.
The heavy whipped cream on your upper lip.
The next thing I said made up for the last thing
I said.
Loose breath down here where you need yarn
to knit back the window. Green-blue, dreamt—
shouldn’ts disappear longingly. Orange-red.
Grapefruit juice, ginger syrup, Szechuan buttons.
How could
a cow take itself seriously? In the field like that—
black-spotted meal and confused winter sleep.
I know how the digression affects me now as
a trained scuba diver, the green turtles are faster
then one might think.
There are final-days at last.
Unsychopated rhythm and weird hot purple-black.
White-yellow. Sour sounds in the morning wake.
The waiting shallow shuffle from pallbearers and
their flower girls who skip on down the aisle to the
sound of the loud wind.
Break-down in the city, and recreate memories with
more friendly intentions, pause at the crosswalk and
propose.