Far And Near Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Flesh of a drifting sky,
let the moon-lit
mist-powdered

and floating surgeon
of me breathe in
halos of cream sun
to cut through you.

Let a tern fly me
to the furthest world
beyond dots
hanging near Neptune

across the center
table, my crystal
vase carrying a rainbow
in its unhatched sky.

(ii)

In that world flowers
brew sun and stars,
no wind to glide

and stitch them into
the dents of a frown
burying my cheeks

in furrows of clouds
from a fire of fondles

burning only tinder
to wheeze out smoke
from a pouting stretch,

a mouth widening
into a soot volcano
flowered by stars

from Sirius and yellow
flames of sunflower,
an eruption's sneeze.

It lies at a sea's edge
Cutting through
a falling streak of cloud.

It is the flattened place
of beams pasted
on my face by the cruising
wings of a needletail

landing on my sofa's back
to slow me down
across my back yard hedges,

skipping grasshoppers
lifting me to the candelabra
of suns amid
feathery dog-eared books
still barking with pulling twinkles.

(iii)

Let wind chase light
it will never grab
on a shore behind the hills.

Let an Asian goose
lift me to the last glass
of expanded sky
on my rising ceiling.

I scoop out powder
from dunes
in the Sahara Desert
to cement deep dents

on my cheek
into a pocketed smirk,
my handkerchief

full of low clouds
screening off a candelabra
splashing stars
on my wavy melting chest

telling me this is life
in its full face

no distant shaft
can cough out
without the strike
of my pen's hammer.