Confined Poem by Felix Bongjoh

i)

Out of a slim
bamboo
hollow,
a zipped nest
in the tram

I steer
on my narrow
tramway

in my sky's
horizon

cartwheeling
over
horizon,

a sprawling
living room

rolling
into a tunnel
in a cottage,

I rise
to the upper
floor of me,

no balcony
to lean on.

No flame
flowers
in the garden
outside

to pull me
into their
smoldering
hearth.

(ii)

I tumble
to the lower
floor of me,

no staircase
to rise back

to the firmament
of my
cubbyhole's
rocker.

I sink into
my sofa
pulling off
my eyes

from the comet
of a glowing
sunset.

Thick clouds
pluck off
my grip
on a sundial.

I roll on
through night
after night

tiptoeing
another corridor
of night.

Clinging
to splashes
of crater
and cave soot.

(iii)

Whispering
birds
stroke me,
rattling out:

Why does
the sun
rise
in a basement

with no other
floor,
but a deep,
deep hole?

Raise
your feathers.
Flap
your wings.

Let beams
on your face
swoosh
out flames

to ignite
a chat
with yourself

and us, flamy
cardinals

flying
and trotting
round
an unharvested
cornfield
of you

mulching ridges
under an
albatross-winged
showering sun

to flower sprouts
in the tide
of twinkles,

a midnight
nebula
wrapping you up,
a package
for you.

In your bedroom
catch the sun
and dive into
its coolness.