Saturday, Ocean Creek by Fred D’Aguiar

Sometimes the morning shakes
itself from its moorings



To this world and lifts skywards
with a fighter jet's roar,



Everyone lucky enough to be up and
about looks to the east







But the sound follows idly a much
faster comet too quick



For lazy eyes, so we ink in a
sleek cross with exhausts



And settle for sound in place of
sight for peace of mind.







A morning without wings, or