almost taken by the frost

for a witchy reason
she leaves the tall panes wide
and thick gulf air washes
over us as we sleep
her black stockinged legs
cobweb over me until
I’m dreaming of our Fathers

always get so lost in this city

that, as she says ,
“The dead can visit.”
never land in her eyes
over hot cups of chicory
in the damp morning
with the Crescent City on my skin
New Orleans my always love.