The Beginning Of A Pier's End Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

I walk down a pier of love
flanked by waves stretching
their hands high above the deck
lined on both sides

by flying sparkles of water and moon
when sun has melted out

of the horizon's cave into unseen
arches of waves drifting
to the edge a storm's low wall.

Lit by drowned golden moon light
wallowing from sea bottom,
I'm taken to the sea end

of a pier, its edge of splashed
waters frothing into
a soft wave crawling up the pier's
bow legs and knocked knees.

(ii)

The end stretches further to high
walls of water pushed back
by the flapping and stroking arms
of waves rushing back and back

from lances and clubs
of waves hurled by sturdy ropes
woven by thick fibers of water
drifting forward and backward
and from side to side,

as if dodging spurting spears of water
in a swelling center.

Ridges of water grow sharp-peaked
And widen into a plateau
of bumps evening out to humming
low waves below whistling waves.

Is that hoe rough it gets, saw-toothed
waters flying out of themselves?
How far do layers of love
and hate go in the wrestling ropes of water,
growing into a swirling strait?

How long will high waves flap wings
by sea gulls flying too low
to stay dry in mid-air, as more waters rise
flipping out branches and fingers of water?

(iii)

In a gale galloping up the pier's deck,
orthoclase and datolite gemstones
of a drowned moon

hacked into pieces of shards
float down narrow lanes and melt
out sight, as new waves roll in
at the end of a two-kilometer pier.

But my journey into the sea
on a pier's galloping horseback begins
with gluing myself to the sagged
saddle on which I ride.
I'll then know what my animal of a pier
running into the sky
from a low jagged shore is made of.