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MC Hyland

BELOVED AS HUMMINGBIRD

 

 

Cut-away coast in the smoke of burning tires

& compulsory nervousness in wrists

 

So much agnosticism

Our bodies fly into the screen door  

 

All the little mouthfuls of meat

Disappearing into annotations

 

Tree branch broken off

How warm the night gets

 

When you are home alone

Rigid leaves on the other side

 

So much sweat

Turning patient as glass

 

Turning cold showered into bed

Honeysuckle or jasmine

 

These quiet neighborhoods

Poor man’s metaphysics

 

Waltzing alone to Family Tradition

In a dress made from a bedsheet

 

Ancestral home in a dream

Parasitic      Like a heavy fist

 

Unraveled on the mountain

I think these woods know

 

Difference between not dreaming

And not remembering a dream

 

On the other side of the goldenrod

A sibilance of rain

 

-

 

SPEAK TO THE GHOSTS IN LATIN

 

 

Desire makes the smallest life       

When the tide comes in

 

As though to say blessed       Disappearing bees

Annotate the quiet neighborhood

 

An invisible wake may be detected

Across the room in rear view

 

The mark you made falling asleep  

[declarative voice]

 

The shape of your mountain       Rigid undergrowth

Turned the whole body into a jam jar of flowers

 

Poor man’s goldenrod       Or whom one has kissed

All the things I have to do when evening comes

 

All the little mouthfuls of meat so theological      

Scratching an uneven simulation

 

Surface festers over the cup

Chip chipped into your morning

 

When I looked back the light was gone

So much sweat       Wind in the trees

 

 

PAPER EXPERIMENTS

 

There should be more morning     South of Moundville

Where all your theological desire drives by

 

Leaves skitter in the wake     Poor man’s memory

Aches across a room     A sepia rag an aluminum-sided sky

 

Uneven surface of a Hank Williams song crumpled

Sheltered agnostically from the freeway

 

A sibilance of rain     In the building’s overhang

You gonna shut the door? You gonna get the beer?

 

Sheet music for peddlers’ cries     Get stoned and write

On the other side of the goldenrod     Kitchens of light

 

Are you mishearing if god is a verb     Pure

Mathematics all made out of rain hard on a roof

 

This year’s captains bending     Somewhere west of here

Birds nested on the air conditioner

 

A driveway dream & emotion recollected

As though sucking the ink from a fountain pen

 

My favorite abject     All tied up in the weather

Made longer by speaking of

 

When the delta tries to pull at the dark threads

Are you a green penny are you an annotation

 

-  

 

WHAT COULD BE SOUTH FROM HERE

 

 

Sagged down a subway platform

In your false fire dress       My favorite abject

 

Failing the coast       Cut away some grass

By the chimes for this year’s captains

 

Trees going insane       It can’t rain this hard forever

But light all over you & your smell

 

The tractor in the bouquet

Cheap mortars from sunset to sunrise

 

All the ghosts look like desire but

 

In the publics       A series of airport dreams

Use a second language      

 

Lavender & kerosene blown around the house   

Was Dickinson prophetic?       To be

 

Part of the world while a body moves ahead

Through time       The problem of “truth”

 

In southern storytelling       Stray dark threads

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