In the douse of black ballon nights
we all have our itchy familiars,
you are my cholera blanket
scented with Iranian incense.
Just as Vermeer captured
sunlight in a pearl
I have placed the raving eyes
of Samson in my funeral shroud sockets
to souse myself in your pages
in the throes of the day.
Your poems leak cloaks of ravens,
their incense claws at my throat.
I found my tongue in your pocket
grinning like a jackal, see my hands move,
I’ll put on my shoes if it’s to be done in ink,
gnawing on the flicker of a faltering bulb.