Speculative Fire

Matthew Moore

A verge and black future clouted
into sex, force immoveable that
draws a bead on dew point for the calyx,
and, at clouting, at sex, cusps
clouting’s charm, trust. Janey, don’t think
anybody’s know how can stop in
the clove burl; each continent is a bed forked
taste yolked. Mind sat up a wand on
the secret of the world.

Janey, anybody who resembles a
dying must be, and is not, funny incendiary,
anthrax in the salutation. You phosphor us
ached, white awake, venal praise
to the arbitrary holy spirit mouth. On
leg, star, cancer. Your name in my hat brim
without banner, without a blazon.

Janey, the interbellum supplicates, to
your disbelief held by heel,
what resistance stomachs will stay red
hyacinth, a formicary state.
Forget begetting the off-season
soldier’s offspring. Set his bastards, in
the juniper’s clock; its affection
of conservative recourse
pretends the republic is natural,
of Nature,
Danton worried,
Robespierre suffered.