There is much to do. The room is red
because we are indecent. The light gives
me up. I’ve made myself at home: I sit on your porch,
watch— the light leads the field past the dumpsters
amber to green; all the wasps huddle in the weaker part
of the rocking chair; briefly, I see my breath then I don’t.
I talk to my other lover on the phone about the certain sounds
some birds make down here this early, not their particular music
but their surety, how they seem to know only one song
and to sing it to its bleating end:
Oh, to call your name only, to be that sure.
Like the light I am scattered
I’ve come to need dispersal. It’s morning again and
I know nothing about you— your arm is sweaty,
heavy across my chest.
Taylor Johnson is a poet from Washington, DC. They have received fellowships and scholarships from Cave Canem, Callaloo, Lambda Literary Foundation, VONA, the Vermont Studio Center, the Lannan Center at Georgetown University, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, MA. Recently, their work appears in the minnesota review and Callaloo.