Moon Cold or Moon Hot by Mary McCleary, www.marymccleary.com
A: blood-bartered giftling
or womb-harrier the river
extols winter’s one black suit
above its tabernacle current
—single-wide bitewing
of the edge of town, are we
coming through clearly? are we
broadcasting?
this world’s saline stubble
listen(s) for the flying tones
sketched brainchantingly
moving through the forest
on fire, bluff-fire, egg- fire
in the tooth’s tactile residue
my heart is a bone-
black wire music’s bloody bell
remembers coagulant
in this third secrecy, the large
blue wheel of the thigh
warming the irradiant asphalt
this glass-nubbed thicketing
(in another dream you told me
the memories of swans are very
brief—you must try some other way
