I dreamed again of Leopold Bloom’s dead son
Extending the candle and appareled in a white cassock
A blond bowl haircut such as boys wore in the Eighties

And gazing upon him I remembered
My own red cassock and the severe pompadour
Of the Catholic Sixties

You are also my son I felt compelled to say
I felt driven to insist to the poor dead lad
That I derided by confusion and sentimentality cared