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M C Hyland


Begin with a mountain, ice shearing off.
      Blue as though inwardly lit & sheet
   metal shook. A wash of terrible cold

      crosses the ocean. Now a car lumps
   across a moldering map. A gesture
extinguishing itself leaves incomplete traces.


   Direct address to troublesome mountain:
This skin fits ill. I will the loathsome
     library to origami upon itself.

   The Speaker sits at a wooden table
      solid as battle. The Speaker equals
an axe or adze. The table trembles.

     The Speaker discards her clothing,
beats linen into unravel. This is
   a sheet of paper, with a memory of skin

it clothed. The Speaker writes in pen: Let me take
     my linguistic form. In the story, which
   the world is. Bitterns, almonds, a hundred

     spoken signs. Radiator ticks
           & the word-hoard
gathers. Little speaker, burning body to fuel.