Ballooned Mass Of Night Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Late evening closes
in with puffs
and singed breezes
of air blown down
lowerfrom bone

and slate skies
through porous flint
trees and smoky
powdered melting roofs,

their curved-in edges
thickening, growing
into the lightblack
bladder of an ellipse

floating down
into the full span of night's
shadow umbrella

with a dark gray, graphite
fog flapping wings

tumbling still low
tosink into the hollow
fatter ellipse of
slightly charred trees
into earth's blown-out

drifting harbored ship
of a sifted night.

(ii)

O sailor of burnt-out
times dressed
in thickened fumes,
a standing smoke
flipping out on its deck

darkening wind-blown
sails into a hanging
lead-necked lowered funnel

pouring out into a sinking
bottle of night
thicker blacker ashes
into a puffy bladder
whizzed out
into a metal flattening tray.

(iii)

O night dished out
to carry onyx layers
soon broken into chards

and flying tail-spinning
and melting feathers
of black birds singing a song
of a full-dressed night
in its blackest cloak.

Who pilots a dense black
night, if not the voice
of a cracking plenum
blowing, blowing
soft but darker, smoky wind

into the peak
of a sighing onyx-ebony
balloon of night,
outside still gathering storms

to lock up and bolt
the last spiraling door
of splashed egret-winged light
from rags of a daylight

still lurking, crawling
behind taller curtains
of a grassier night,

as mice from a large tumor
of night dent
me in with the horrors
of bleeding daylight,

the last crimson cloud
that pumped
into a night of me
a dark glass
shattered into specks
of a reclining man,

growing horns no wind
and breeze
can blow into without
lips dripping
into a daylight's kiss.