LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village

Noelle Kocot

Love, Alters, Everything


In the guided sheen of minus-dreams,
I watch our youth stretched
In the nook of a crossbow,

The heart of a christened fact.
We might as well pry open a snowflake,
Make love in a zero,

In zero gravity, with no one on top,
With the yeah yeah yeah of draperies
Shifting in the wind.


Je tombe, tu tombes, il tombe ...
From my cyber-garden of Eden,
These Cyclops-tears

Are a stain on your identity,
An ant carrying maybe-famines on its back,
The ghost rushing for the truck

In your caressed shadows,
Summer on a porch, bottles out of breath,
The sculpted gestures of enchantment's harmonious ark

That splash onto you and onto you my disloyal ink,
The ripped open lungs of my poetry,
This paper-flesh.

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