Dreams of Heisenberg

I am in for each quiet moment.

A place where the air won’t pass.

A vacuum of feeling.

A place where Heisenberg won’t go:

Into a dream of rats and colored silk.

You whose textures cross

rigid in the specificity of color and remorse.

I am a room. I am red.

We listen to a Serbian man direct

His Serbian film.

We are complete with a hoodie sweater

and brass instruments.

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