Oh, Anton
quick quick quick
those sounds spilling
ink from your cottony mouth
the gauze of your expression
in the unbearable summer heat,

hand in
mine, swings
like the wings of a prophetic dove


peel verse from my mind
before I think of its conjecture

unleash the metaphor before the
action reenacts itself, before the subcurrent
shutters, before I tremble

tremble, tremble

those sounds
slung over your shoulder

those sounds, slowly
burring themselves inside my mind.