Growing Up
Sewed to salt, we revel in the
Beautiful. But this terrain is harsh
And unwelcoming. The syntactic
Shift in our lives is actually tectonic,
And we swim along backwards
Over pools of ice. Once, our
Compound parkways were only
Islands. Meanwhile, to watch
Our shadows drop was a deciduous
Tree standing lonely. Oh, it was
Igneous, unblinking. The ladders
Swaying in the high shadows left
Us no regret, and the mountains
Of this parabolic city finally grew up.
That Which Disperses
Chyme hammering away at
The habitual particles,
A house of water improves
Upon heaven's job. The
Center of home is a pair of
Gold curves. Crouching
Beside these doors, the
Delighted sidewalk intensifies
To a pair of knees. The insects
Fill up the night like a song.
Jigsawed habituation, the
Flung wreckage sipped a
While then receded. I do not
Know where these obsequies
Lead, or if I should stop them
While they lie close to the
Ground. Plates of gristle,
New slippage, time seems hacked
By a coroner's heavy head.
I give you something through
The stage lights, a vegetable
Without a peel. I ask you to
Say something to the dark,
For example, the blood crouching
With the departed other, singing.
Concussion
Feathers where a head
Should be,
Double without two.
This dark behooves me,
And yet I cannot sleep.
Miracles of saints,
How do you say lightness?
Fingers ablaze,
I got nothing,
But thought I'd tell you anyway.
Noelle Kocot's seventh book of poems, Phantom Pains of Madness, is due out in spring from Wave Books. She is poet laureate of Pemberton Borough, New Jersey.