tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-110449672012-01-09T11:58:16.584-08:00Chris Hutchinson's poems and poetry booksChris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11044967.post-73830453755781301332011-02-28T13:10:00.000-08:002011-12-22T17:51:31.191-08:00

The spring malingers. He is sick of it— The loose fabric of rain, all warp and no weft. America, once predatory, has presumably fled. It is hard to concentrate, to derive any prospects or Feelings from this daguerreotype landscape. His eyes Are the half-closed eyes of a nursing infant. In each pupil a monitor glows, stars gone Milky, nebular. Hunger and thirst Sucked from the

Chris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11044967.post-68844890685504896802010-10-11T14:47:00.001-07:002010-10-11T15:09:26.520-07:00

Listen! Listen!

Chris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260noreply@blogger.com0