By Andrew Kuhn

18 September 2016

Her tidy rump perched on the tri-corn seat,
whose long nose rests where his yet longs to be. . . .
That under her own power she should leave—
So lately his alone, yet so easily
Now flying from him—appears barbarous,
Unthinkable; quite wrong, yet full delicious.
A woman’s perfect thighs not in repose
But pumping hard as any cantering mare’s
Reminds him of no one, nothing he knows.
He walks faster after her, unawares.
This brave new world has a hot, bright strangeness
That robs his breath, staggers him. It’s dangerous:
That she goes where she likes strikes him near blind.
She’d given all to him, except her mind.

In the course of becoming a poet and psychologist, Andrew Kuhn has sold firewood, rebuilt apartments, done aid work, and worked as a journalist. His poems have appeared in Able Muse Review, Chimaera, The Mailer Review, and Vending Machine Press; work is scheduled for publication in The Heron’s Nest and Common Ground Review. Kuhn also conducts interviews with distinguished poets in support of the Katonah Poetry Series, an organization that has brought live poetry readings to Katonah, NY for almost fifty years. Sometimes when he’s thoroughly drenched himself in a poet’s work, he shakes himself like a dog, and affectionate parodies appear on the wall, which he copies down before they dry and disappear.

See also by Andrew Kuhn: The Philosopher-King of Häagen-Dazs.