Dawn's Bait Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Not the sun-
steered fisherman,
his hands
deep in mud

scooping out
worms
for a fighting line.

But the sun
itself oozing out

of sky's
smoking volcano
that won't

explode into
a silver
and cotton light.

(ii)

The sun,
a creeping worm,

splits out
of a chunky
clayey sky,

a thick narrow
crawling cloud
melting
into a wax,

shooting out
no sun beams
until early

cotton motes
of sun drift
down into air,

a floating parachute
of coral
and cream
splash
and chrome beams.

(iii)

Sun, will you
shine
in your full
wings,

or you'll dive back
into your nest?

Taffy, bubblegum
rays shoot
out pins

and feathers
of rays to land
on a bed,

the fisherman
rolling over,
his eyes
still sleep-stitched.

(iv)

Wind rattles
through tree leaves
by his window,

shaking
a soft maracas
that sends

the man back
into a drumming snore.

But the sun
bounces back
from
a cloudy sky

with the sharp rays
of late morning
fire and blaze,

the fisherman
jumping
out, as he mutters:

The sun has
fished me again
in its wide
net of cruising rays,

and I'm too
late to catch
its soft feathers
for a golden catch.