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.