Near Effingham

Wind in the mane.

A thicket of music. Here is that

Lovely silk underwear green trout water,

A liver-spotted dog,

Horse breath and body steam,

Steaming urine in the grass, coarse

Grey mane in my face.

A farm breathes in my mouth..

The respectful bonfire’s voice:

Wet urine-soaked straw smoke.

Apple branch and vine trimming smoke.

You with me.

A moment’s happiness defiant.

My religion,

Pointillist again tonight.

Paul Anthony Hutchinson

paulanthonyhutchinson@icloud.com

Poetry Reading at the Antipodes Bookstore

Poetry Reading at the Antipodes Bookstore

Butter, daffodil, taupe, tan, sand, khaki to verdigris: words that are
Washes of notes, slurred on a stave of hours, of slurred hours.
Here I can move not alone through smut and honey toward art.

Other kinds of hours wait for us outside the bookstore
Like toughs waiting after school.
This, here, is the real hardship and the real adventure.

Houses, apartments, garages are studios.
It is you who are the bohemian now.
This is your only Paris,
These lewd Hamilton streets your Alexandria,
These are the ateliers and this is the cafe of the artists.

Paul Anthony Hutchinson

Published in the Broadway Review.