Sky In A Sky Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Green trees the only
dry bones,
twigs crunchy ribs

in the open air meal
cooking
in a deep earthenware
bowl of earth.

Branches of wind-shaven
trees dropped
into the broadened cauldron
of a melting garden,

taupe space
the sole glowing hearth

under wallowing flames
of wind-pushed sun and gong
of drummed hollow times.

A hot garden floor chars
walking soles

carrying faces bathing
in hot salty water.

(ii)

Tiptoe across and jump
over to the porch.
Fly off, running to the deck
behind the kitchen.

Slim down into
that squirrel
to float about the lawn
and scamper off

a tree, when a strong
wind's hand
hurls off dry leaves
and slaps the squirrel's tail.

Cartwheel with spirals
of half-gales
into the hot lips
of the microwave's couch,

the hot sighing table
shifting dishes

sifting tiny winged
insects of dust
from light spun air.

(iii)

A gale blows
boiling rumbling pots,
a breeze grills
light shirts and blouses.

Leaves too cooked
to a hard boil,

grasses roasted
and grilled
in sun's furnace.

Only a crackling wind
is at table,
crushing bones of earth,
breezy fingers

breaking chicken legs
too hard for the saw
of a rusty and sticky knife

tossed and hurled
by no lumbar jack's hand.

(iv)

From an earthly garden
a roller takes off,

as I bump out without
knocking at quiet's door,

for it was perched
on a quiet trumpet flower,
the only mouth

blowing off a bird carrying
an azure ceiling,

a beaming sky
on wings carrying away
a beach to float in the air.

O roller, fly not
with my sky.
O beach breeze,
hug me with hands of bubbles
from a foamy spume

gliding off sheets
of soft waves
to stroke a dry crackling chest.