Celia, the Sea Does Not Remember You Waves are not waves But the convulsions of a body That has forgotten the bones it conceals. The sea a wound that refuses to close. Celia goes there because the sea soothes her. She goes there because the air cools her. She observes gannet and curlew As one watches The slow collapse of a star. A big black sea bird stands in the surf   Like an officiating priest. Its eyes are two shells Filled with the residue of night. Around it, strands of

Dreams, Memories, Visions    Of life as a ‘story   of the self-realization   of the unconsciousness’ ... p. 17     Digging up bones   and a little light in fog ... pp. 104, 107     Walking through a valley   to hand a goddess an umbrella ... pp. 155, 161     § Of trees as the embodiments   of life’s incomprehensible meaning ... p. 86     The bitterness of Freud   and the analogy   with God ... pp. 75, 175     A white dove transformed   into the ghost   of a customs official .

Bergson Memory is a cloud wherever my body is; A fog of the virtual enveloping the actual. The past contracts to the present at the...

A jazz trombone extends a metaphor, the length of a memory.   With a memory, my grandfather says,   You got to hear its pitch, its tone &...

Fog swirls, curls around vans, cars, slips ghostlike through bare branches.