Flower Of World War Iii Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Silver days spin glass and plastic paper,
Sun shooting feathers of bullets,
Soft rays and shafts of drifting light.

No floor-pointing thumb, the trigger
From a bumpy-muscled arm flipping out
No poking index finger of a muzzle.

No roaring bong, no trumpeted tapping
Of earth's sandy pebbled leather,
Its drum lips marching boots down lanes.

No clouds from mouths whiffing out
Volcano smoke, as black hills sprout
And rise and spike everywhere.

No valleys of debris and detritus deepening
Red-flowered wounds, peonies yawning.

(ii)

Only folks drum earth, their shoes
Not fitting, as they fly from each other,
Dive off each other, social-distancing.

Only traffic policeman never touched
But pierced with eyeball over
Fines to be paid for not trotting like an owl
Behind the cloud of a mask.

Only rumbles from storms of laboratories
Spraying ribbons of finds, the flag
Still burrowed in Wuhan's laboratory
Brewing ashy mist and gluey fog.

Only moth dust flies around, eyeball
Piercing eyeball without touching,
But adding new petals to the flower of social
Distancing hanging down a breaking shrunk plant.