Hirsute Blossoms Crashed into the Season, Exoskeletons of Zeroes Netted the Wind

Noelle Kocot

The answers are stuck like tiny eggs

Between my teeth, a cosmic arithmetic

Wending its way through depilation

And the subtle centrifuge of forgotten

Territories, which I oil and burn,

Crazy with black festivals

Against a knotted skyline, pop-

Up ads for growing taller,

A concupiscent halo that invites

Wire, wire, wire, wire, wire,

Until we meet again in the crossing

Of the bridge between the I

And the you, which would open out before us,

If only I could creep into the vespers

Of the lucid Law you know,

Sun setting over the burning territories,

Incinerating me every night

Into the dawn’s charred aviary, the word.