T.A.V. Poem by Garrett Johnson

T.A.V.

An undergoing, the crass inevitability, sweet surrender:

is there another way to enter, like to be a little painting,
an outline on the limestone, not just of body but of the breezy
or populated topography? The anatomy of a kiss, it pricks but acknowledges.

Can't be only rubbed. The traction in the midst of it and the upward sloping
with the stuttering plywood pile.

While I'd like to see it entombed between hips, a devoured interlocutor,
what's in it for you? Would you be like a statue wondering in prayer?
Would my weary exclamation form a statement as it crashes into a bundle?

When it is performative, one must wonder what finger-like creature
curls up into itself, where the chalice goes when it is transported through clouds
like exhaled smoke. Pin me down, I am willing also

as I have said, to be a little eraser amidst a greater skin. To trace things
in a pocket.