Chainstitch Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Run down
a line,
as fast
as lightning
to stitch

clouds
of ripped
clothes
from
end to end.

Hurry up
to cross over
from
one firm grip
to another.

The world
hangs
on loose ends,
pores
and pauses

allowed
to let crevices
yawn

Too many
cracks
to seal
in the world
and too few
to cover.

Why split
hairs over gaps
that can still
hold hairy
edges together,

letting a storm
split them
with age and wear?

(ii)

Under a tight
moon
showering
a tailor
with feathery light,

a stretchy
field of fabric
opens
its wings
for a needled
thread

to sing
and babble
through

like a fast-flowing
stream
washing off
all silt and clay

and leaving
no cement
to close in
and glue

wide gaps
yawning
only at dawn

and breaking off
with a storm
of dusk,
when birds

storming
back home
with no reeds
for their nests,

peck off
untightened
threads
from clothes
on a line,

leaving wide
holes
and windows
to hang
on a walking
man's shirt,

as he's dragged
in mud,
when friends
cackle like hens
at him until

he catches
himself
to be clothed

in galloping
holes of rags,
his clothes
rat-mauled
to yawn and shout,

his tailor
having crafted

a fast
chainstitch
cruising down

a lane
of fabric
like
a fleeing
slithering mouse

to leave
a customer
unclothed
as a worm,

his only veil
and cover,
the sky's sun
and moon.