In my dream
I am walking through city streets
in the dark with no fear
to Gentilly and it all comes back to me
the house on St. Ferdinand,
cypress trees hanging long and low, 
honeysuckle tangled on the wrought iron gate
which I open slowly
and I am home to see my father . . .
I knock and wait, knock and wait . . .
I cannot believe, even in slumber,
that he is gone.

The night's needle eye
meant to admit
a skein of drunken angels
lets slip instead
a plague of restless hours.