Saint-Saëns: Three Poems
west indian morning
there's nothing like silence
the kind that sighs
and settles itself over
a West Indian morning.
favoured with a cool
that only lingers
to grace very few.
with blue dark that you
peer inside of.
with a score
like:
cock's crows
complaining about
the rub from
shoving up against
the waking sounds of
a small highway.
like:
when people
slip softly, somnolent
under the rug
labelled ina bifuor die
teach you kindness from struggle.
like:
wahn bench we dem plaka plaka
a poorly mended hem
with plank and nail
for needle and thread.
moaning
to hip’s shift
so you never feel
quite without company.
swallowed & regurgitated
A single faraway plane rips through clarity, indifferent sky,
defying day’s angry panes with engine’s arrogant roars, the kind of sanctimony
Icarus only had thrust upon him.
Below, squat squares of brown-grey concrete,
their floating innards festering
as they walk in the dry-hot breeze, dead-eyed and stock-smiled,
entrenched in illusions of independence.
I wonder if birds see their companions as a metal avis, cyborgs for sky
or if they enjoy their intermediary state,
somehow not consumed by what is clearly a predator
in the way the innards seem to be,
swallowed and regurgitated.
nighttime
routine goes;
shut the gate,
the doors.
leave only the light you keep,
drop the curtains.
the incline toward minutiae done by animal, all time over
yearning to remain hidden,
when most vulnerable.