Magnitude and Bond

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We were, all of us, ethered
             when the window broke. Soon after, the floor
                            bent. The wood collapsing upon

itself formed a new dimension,
             a new danger. I wanted to kiss
                           all of you, friends— on the scruff, in the DJ booth,
                                        behind the table in the blue screenlight

I played what you wanted. In the middle of our going on,
              jealousy was the snow thawing on a good day: obfuscation, then
                            bright destruction. My desire in the cold months was

opaque, egalitarian. We were driven and making it up
             hip to hip. No matter the rhythm the beat
                           laid out, salt on our lips:

our primary concern, our formal plea. Amber-lit
             halfway by the sodium light, we wanted darkness
                          only, save for blunts, save for someone lighting

a cigarette. Desire is a blue dimension.
              I played you collapsing, bent by
                           need on the floor.

Taylor Johnson writes poems in Washington, D.C.

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Further Reading

 November 19

In Widows, what should cause tonal whiplash is, in Steve McQueen’s hands, disquieting, exhilarating: capital-R Real.

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