p
o
e
m
s

O capacious room,
give me your tongues.

I’m done with being self-
possessed. Take hold, turn

the river in me. I’m freed
up to be anybody else,

my molecules twinned
with the sound. O erotic ours,

pass me not. Keep me in
the pocket. O percussive

dissent, devotion is anything you say
go awry. In this early hour,

keep me recursive. The impulse is
to lose my feet. I’m yet overcome.

You seismic drop.
You sovereign fade.

O black chaos, I’m in study
at your center, turn me out.

Taylor Johnson writes poems in Washington, D.C.

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