RIP Denis Johnson

White, White CollarsWe work in this building and we are hideousin the fluorescent light, you know our clotheswoke up this morning and swallowed us like jewelsand ride up and down the elevators, filled with us,turning and returning like the spray of light that goesaround dance-halls among the dancing fools.My office smells like a theory, but here one weepsto see the goodness of the world laid bareand rising with the government on its lips,the alphabet congealing in the airaround our heads. But in my belly's flamessomeone is dancing, calling me by many namesthat are secret and filled with light and riseand break, and I see my previous lives.

Denis Johnson, 1949 - 2017