Even the title of Hutchinson’s second collection gives his readers a hint at its litanous plurality: House of Lords and Commons. Many kinds of bodies govern between the covers of this book, and they are only very rarely singular. In its pages, memory multiplies as readers shuttle back and forth in time; a man hangs a bag of oranges from the limbs of a tree, then the oranges multiply in the stanza, reappearing as a dreamt orchard, then in the name of a whole coast. 

Sounds, too, multiply. The book is beautifully studded with alliteration that keeps the language high, and Hutchinson is masterful at burying rhymes (sometimes mid-line), so one could almost glaze over the way, for example, “pillars” recalls “dollars” a line earlier.

Hutchinson focuses not so much on community as on crowd. Mosquitoes, otherwise innocuous, swarm. In “Fitzy and The Revolution,” a mass of unpaid cane cutters move angrily through town, becoming a vaguely threatening “they.” In “The Wanderer,” the sea takes on “10,000 voices / arched into one, shaking the mountain clouds down / into mist.”

There are many characters in this book, and while each one is distinct, they are almost never alone. “Punishment” opens with “all the dead eyes of the dead / on portraits” which look down at a figure who becomes (along with the speaker) one of two central figures in the poem, each of whom intently examines the other. These poems seem to be the fruit of a mind deeply conscious of the gaze of others, and of the poet’s own gaze.

Perhaps this pressure to re-examine, this refusal to take a singular view, is why Hutchinson writes, in a later poem, “I don’t know who us is” – an attitude that quietly undermines the threat of the crowd.

Farrar, Strauss, Giroux.