Early Winter Dawn Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

I did not see the early sky,
a dawn drawn out
to the coin and flint veil
of the past dusk.

As it still spat out smoke
from a night hearth's
cold steam roast.
And only thin ash floated.

Only bows of grey clouds
bloated, unleashing
thin arrows to tear through skin,

a mass of early risers
caged in cocoons to brew
warmth into
the depth of icy freezers
coating soles
with steel graters and brushes.

Into barrels of walking
early birds, feet
drumming off shoes
and knee-level
boots of sticking snow.

A mass of silky cream sky
still wallowing through
in pewter garments
behind a ceiling's porpoise
and anchor screens.

Still wallowing through
in pewter garments
behind a ceiling's porpoise
and anchor screens.

(ii)

I did not see the sky
in eagle wing primaries,
only dove coverts

thinning down
to a stretched-out
cloudy plastic and glass patch,

the eagle itself still
exposing its flanks. Until it was
mangled and devoured
by massive cream clouds.

I peeked at a slate shade
still unfolding its arms
to the edges
of a shrinking graphite coat

slowly torn
into shreds of a creamy grey.

Then I found the sky
fallen face flat
to a white light of earth,

a caged sun lighting up
white bearded lawns
with awareness
of splashed snowflakes,

its white flies nipping
and pricking
skin in its thinnest of films.