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