Noelle Kocot / elevene|even


Church of white petals, there is no offense here.
There is a bit of understanding, not much, and
Some crumpled bright lottery tickets. You in
Your fragile coat of arms, you in your destiny,

You, you, you, a sharp-edged warrior, tell me, where
May I find the beginning? I’m forty-three years old,
And I’m talking to a kitchen bowl. The kingdom
Is in the waves of lapidaries vowing change and

Promise. In the scale of what we claim, there is
An unplanned landscape. Wind on a compass,
Light upon light, I have moved very carefully in
Your wake. Percussion floods the infernal mysteries,

And the veins torched with electricity no longer
Cry out. A decade’s failure, a wound, some music.

Noelle Kocot.

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