Please Do Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Gallop across the corridor.
Please do trot towards
my drawer ebbing off, melting
at that angled fondle

slipping you off your crooning
mutter into my stony ears.

Like an Alpine swift, I'll pave my way
through a dark swelling cloud
to my warm nest near Mount Fako.

But all has been glassy, as I can see
you through a wheeled a mirror
riding me to bed, my torn heels' numb rock.

Please do. Please hurry up to the edge
of a running promontory
from the table, where I sit and fling

back a cloud on a bird's wattle
and write in a cabin,
love's hand sitting on my head.

(ii)

Come on time, please do.
Do beat the falcon's wings flapped
as the clock's hand drifts.

Cut through twenty-meter high
waves, when a typhoon
steers the world beyond the edge
of cylindrical shears, and a tunnel

opens a deep throat to hum
with the hurricane that carries me.

If you do come now,
I'll wear an albatross's wing span
to carry me across waves

and storms of tumbling cartons
to plant my ears into your mutter.
The world spins in our small bedroom.

(iii)

I've been dwarfed by your drift
to an archipelago off
the abandoned island of my bed.
I'm the crawling ant under your bed

And now I rise to touch the sky,
as I walk, an arch seated on my back:

I come, an ostrich-priest carrying
sun and moon, my cassock a thick cloak
of night floating behind me,
a clock's thick stony hand
between vane and afterfeather.