pointe-a-pitre, guadeloupe, french west indies

particular sounds have become familiar
markets, motorbikes, the clock tower
but at ten o'clock the street is too quiet
starving black dogs drift past in ragged files,
death messengers dispersed from the center of town
their tongues hang out; their eyes are
narrow, sickened

mothers carry garbage down to the gutter
across from the Palais de Justice dogs are
sleeping on the steps of St. Peter's Cathedral

you go into the street, stumble, look up
you catch a glimpse
you pass her room, brown cloth swatches
you recognize the eyes

earlier there were bats, flitting like swallows
through the half light, from the balcony
over the park, the dark comes quickly, over fishermen and secretaries

earlier the brothers were chanting paternosters
behind the high walls, down in the gardens
dogs and monks under the shadow of the cathedral,
waiting for visions and mysteries
aeons ago celestial warriors tore off a corner of Paradise,
flinging it to earth . . .

in the cafe at ten o'clock, the swarthy men
are playing at checkers
you go into the street and are alone
you step down, you are isolated, timeless
this is your own corner

ten o'clock, everyone is weeping
I want to be there, to go, to see, to ascend
we have all drawn crazy scenes as children

not that the pictures get any better
gutter noises; cockroaches scuttle over stones
this world has broken too many people

in your own glass the eyes look forgotten
in the center of the city the cathedral watches
like a mother over all her wandering sons

--Amos Stoltzfus