Birds Trail Crawling Worms Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

I've just failed
to catch it, this bird
of a sun that shot
itself through,

landing on a wall
in my bedroom
still floating with sleep.

Ship sailing with me
through a last leg
of sleep full of storm
and high waves

in this ocean of sheets
stroking me
with the elastic palms
of sheathed water,

the gloss of my bed sheets,
which flapped
the wings of an albatross
all seal-eyed night,

as I lay down planted
into my back, floating
with the bird wheeling me
through fat heads
and slithering tails of sleep.

(ii)

Through a drawn-out
stretch of my worm-crawling
sleep, as I rolled

between other rolling
blob and bubble of smooth skin,
worms stroking me
in a river slithering worms,

the smooth-bodied wind
pulling and pushing me
through deep sleep,
a falling slope into a deep valley
between my pillows.

I abandoned ship and tossed
myself onto a deck
of trouncing sleep taking me
to islands of whispering birds,

moth and butterfly
fondling me from my temple
down to my toes.

(iii)

I slept on the back
of soft-croaking doves
floating through
my small pillows falling back
into my face

with baby hands,
the wheeled breeze
in choked giggles
and drawn-out cackles,

as I wore feathers
of winged smiles
taking me down a gliding
stretch, the river flowing.

The river floating me
down to an angle
of my shrunk wall pushing me

down a curve
of my pillow, a sharp cutting
ray of sun slashing me

into sharp pieces of light
flapping bird wings.

The silver and beige
bird of another ray of sun
flapped its wings,

bawling out with the thunder
of a felled tree crashing
on a stony brook,

as I jumped out of the worm's grip
of a flowing sleep
with no screeching brakes,

but the loud voice of sun:
You're running late for work.