Topic

Jung at Heart

Poetry playing at psychoanalysis – without intending to succeed.

#27. December, Maybe.

The days fall out of sequence again. The fork appears before the hand, then the window – then the question: ‘Is this morning, or just another sentence with light in it?’ ⸻ Someone says something kind. She touches it with gloves on. The compliment writhes a little. She leaves it on the

Some material is elsewhere, under consideration. It has opinions about timing.

Dream of my Dogs

I dreamed last night of impossible births, grey feathers shifting to fur, chirps dancing beneath a strange oak table. My two – Sig and Doof – lying there, old eyes glistening with the weight of years, straining to give me their young. Yet only strange half-creatures came. I whispered to them, just

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