Floating Wool Yarns Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

The air is heavy,
bog's flesh dropping

with it. A marsh's
shredded pools
breathe out haze.

Streaming zigzags
cough out
pebble and anchor
winged hue,

wheeze out
heavy wooly clouds.

The day carries
metal wooly clouds
floating me
into midnight

at noon, when sun
spreads bright feathers
of rays to fall
with the light

of a stray asteroid
to polish light
into beams hurled off
a drifting cyan lake.

(ii)

But the day
tumbles on me
with thick
ink and oil wool,

keeping me floating
on dark brown

balls and flapped
wings of dim
woolly clouds.

Woven by thoughts
stitching my spirits
into veils of cloudy
curtains running across

my bushy way
in the narrow straight
of supermarket,

cackling voices
not illuminating
the woolly, grassy path
I tread on
between rolling carts.

(iii)

The day's blanket
of old thoughts
hangs down

on me and sits
like a mountain

carrying
a heavy canopy
of shrubs and trees
with no birds.

And when I plump
down into
my davenport,

I throw a glance
at light brown balls
of wool rolling

on floated wheels
in the veranda,
their yarns unfolding

into thick woolen
threads knitting me
out of ink clouds

to float on
my three flowing
rabbits

lifting me on horseback
to the gates
of a new firmament.