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137 leWis turCo The Recurring Dream for Luigi, in memoriam. I seek my father—that minister of the deep—among the furniture of my childhood. I step out of waking into this room and know that time has passed. The windows are webbed and moonstreaked. A lamp with a glass shade, green and saffron, burns on a brass stem. The bookcases hold sermons and silence. My aquaria stand among tumbled tomes and testaments. The dust rises into the amber darkness. I disturb a desert of hours, search for the fish that glide in musty waters—blue scales glint under my glance, their eyes are corals budding among rusty blades of sea grass and swordplants. I remove the glass lids and dip my hand into the water— it is what I have feared: shadow of a shadow, dim air flowing from corner to corner. The fish rise along the curtains to swim about me in the air, their black fins wavering. I dig in the gravel stranded among the shelving, the decaying books. I dig, and here, in the root of the largest plant, blooming from a socket of bone, I find my father where he has scuttled, at last to be brought back, smiling. ...

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