Taylor Johnson

 

of the world. I have to remind myself

 

that. Time unfurls its tongue just

 

before it dissolves. Shall I show

 

my hand, it says, and I take the tongue

 

into my mouth. There is this wild slide like

 

green rising from black in the morning. There is no self.

 

Foremost it’s like grasping thunder, trying

 

to hold still the curtain of time. Into

 

the filaments I cast my breath, not its likeness.