poem: no, stars aren't made out of sugar

EREZ AVISSAR

ZOE @ FLORENCE & THE MACHINE

Pure, stupid, white- a baby

Lady, where is your ID?

At the bottom of my bag

At the bottom of a lake.

I feel sacred thinking about you

Holy, almost ghostly.

Let us be, jagged and running on three legs.

I love all your violent silence

Looking at the window

Nape of your neck

winks at me.

I’ve been a lively fool

Dancing and watching 2020

roll like a passage

like ticker tape over my head.