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MC Hyland




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







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





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







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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