At Life's Intersection Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(from a hotel room)

(i)

A bird flows out
from the hole of a flute,
a deep thought
when moments ride
each other and melt.

On crackling bicycles
flying into air
with handlebars of more
twittering birds
and a giant hawk drumming night.

With a voice a thick
crater's jumping flow
bumping with beds

rocking sleeping passengers
like lying prisoners
on death row, a hangman
waiting at every door to daylight.

The world leaps with every
rumble and crack
of on shifting walls of trees.

As a sky is woven
into streams
of black birds parading screens
of drifting air
stitching out borders of a night.

Let me pull sun
into this dark chamber
of butchered voices
and vehicles on a highway

creeping into my bed,
when lamps shoot
light into light tumbling over
rails dwindling
into bicycles on sidewalks
flowing with a race.

(ii)

Its late dawn drifting
into early morning, when birds
sing with half voices
that drag on a twittering night

into hoots and sputtered
jumps of tires
in the growing symphony
of a highway creeping

like giant crocodiles
in yellow watery streets,
where rivers of life
ride each other and split
into screeching bicycles
stitching wounds

on the legs and arms
of customers still having
a smooth ride of sleep
through a broken tottering night.

When night hangs
on a bird's wing of floating
moments, stars stitching
us to full showers of moon,

life flips open daylight
with a thousand suns:

We harvest only a slim ray
and a star's broken speck
the brightest torch
to weave ourselves through

another daylight of night
full of the shady hands of gamblers
piercing us with stitched winks.