Pele: May 8, 1902

With the smile of morning         in her purse,         the dark laughter of her         cat napping         in the crevice, half-alert,         Martinique (angelique)         on padded paws         climbs from night.         I saw her hair-brush         the lava to warm the bay,         crinkle little St. Pierre         jammed into one         parking lot, volcanic embrace.         In the little museum          - the holocaust cenotaph -         Nature pared essentials to the bone,         a cauldron of smoke         peers from old photographs         to cement (danse macabre)         bric brac ivy/stone and         coffee beans wedded         in grandeur         fission-fusion-froideur         resembling masses of bees,         grotesqueries & beards         upstaging even Miro & the distant surrealists;         where reality masked vampire fiction to         roll sulphuric heat toward belches of         St. Pierre's prison.         And Cygnet         (his name close in French to "Swan"         leg-irons)         (subterranean chamberling peeking out),         undaunted solitary survivor -         the bars on his charnel house         were the fingers of God         pointing the way free.