My thoughts are like that,
turning and going back where nothing wants them,
where the door opens and a road
of light falls through it
from behind you and pain
starts to whisper with your voice;
where you stand inside your own absence,
your eyes still smoky from dreaming,
the ruthless iron press
of love and failure making
a speechless church out of your dark
and invisible face.
Denis Johnson, from “The Flames” The Incognito Lounge: And Other Poems (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1994)
