Fingers Of Evening Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

The swollen evening falls down
on the drifting hamlet
like bunches of petunia,

lavender and red-orange clouds
melting into flying blotches
spraying the sky below

with mists of tuscan sun,
as blonde patches still burn

the tinder of a thinned-out
woody late evening
into feathers of graphite.

How far off is sky's
narrow track from the gates
of a dyed evening
landing with the dark wings
of a screaming hawk?

(ii)

Where is the path
down to the crater
of shadows and films of soot?

Late evening is still scaling down
a steep zigzagging staircase
to the basement of night,

no more dormers
and narrow apertures
between louvers on bunched
hugging tree leaves
to allow a few arrows of light,

as I race towards my bed
to tussle with fingers
from drifting clouds of pixels,

shadows from moon-lit
trees placing fingers of petioles
on my swelling bed.