The poem
to Karl Max Ostojic
Why do you stare at the little box That in her emptiness Holds the whole world
If the little box holds The world in her emptiness Then the antiworld Holds the little box in its antihand
Who'll bite off the antiworld's antihand And on that hand Five hundred antifingers
Do you believe You'll bite it off With your thirty-two teeth
Or are you waiting For the little box To fly into your mouth
Is this why you are staring