Introduction: MC Hyland

Down in the junkyard there is a god, submarine & therefore. If therefore, then breathe in the house haunted be bees--you are particle, naked in the camera's stuttering eye. MC Hyland's silent films & new architectures are a motion she makes occur, are the way light closes with the hands. Write me when you get to Texas, she asks, living funny in rented rooms, leave a map in every room. The moon can be taken apart, built as in tires & clay, a house of distraction. A refrigerator coos to potted basil on the sill, murderous soil turned suddenly to walls. If bones form a frame, & then you, we stand on the lawn in evening gowns, all the bats out into nightliness. A house is a house only in countryside shifting reference about loss--as in residue, her memory as though under glass. House of lunar aureole with a book hand-drawn--inverted roof, wings--the holes in the sky are closing up, but we remove our clothes & adieu/ so beautiful. Noun, noun. To denote a train or clockwork she is walking away from us. Here is the edge, MC Hyland's poems hint & cipher, let time slip through this isolation. What winter these stanzas. I am shouting in my sleep in this hot junkyard then. And then you--to the grass, laughing. MC Hyland.