The Bridge Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In the hurricane
blowing down every perch,

spilling bassoons
and cymbals, as legs
hang on branches,

O sparrow cling
to fibers of a cloud,
when wind is alto
and bass sackbut.

Torn voussairs
and keystones sing
and hum, hanging.

Spandrels drift
beneath claws, an eagle trapped.

All girders and pylons
broken, deck cracked
and split apart.

A jump with a bird's wings
the measured span.

No slab, no stone
glued to stone,
but bone lifting will
to fill a gap of ridges and furrows.

(ii)

Let air be the strip
from eye to eye,
the pipe flowing tropes
from ear to ear,

arches finding a place
for rough rods to lean on.

Built of stretched floss
and feathers -
everything soft -

to stroke hands
in an inner bowl
of breeze,

a whispering mouth
blowing on

along a dove's path
guided by a star
in the one-eyed sun.

(iii)

From bank to bank
a shaft of sight
flashed out and dimmed

by lightning's torch
from hearth to hearth.

Let a ray cross
a bridge
of rainbow flowers

to land on a brushed
and polished rock,

the anchorage holding
strayed legs of clouds.

(iv)

On the bridge,
filter the burning hearth
of a flying spear's will
to land on rooted rock,

the only bridge
that holds in a typhoon,
when arches wobble.

Let a straight gaze
with no beams spiral,
as eyes cantilever
the star-lit slate

to flip over a drowning
man onto
a porpoise's back,
when a wink is a bridge.