Hurry, Hurry Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Hurry up
through the drifting
pebble clouds.

Hurry, hurry on,
as wind blows
into a stretchy tuba.

Hurry on
through the snare
and entangled
grasses
and crawling trees,

your thoughts
only digging trenches.

Sinking you
in wells
to drawn you,

as you squeeze
yourself
into your galloping
mole hole
of a trench

to tunnel you into
an ant hole
narrow like a grain
of night
planted to grow
only night,

when daylight
lurks by an eclipse
of your
very thought
of a deepening
volcano.

(ii)

There's no place
to hide
under the eucalyptus

tree of daylight
and the baobab

of a night locked
and tethered to itself.

Under the walled-in
feathers
and wings
of alabaster air,
more skies

build up
in the deepest,
narrowest hole
of a thought
in chains and shackles.

Hurry, hurry
down a stretch
of countryside,
a mooing
cow of a sun

to the lowing
star of you,
a castle
within the fort of you

to put
you in a padlock's
hole,
a trumpeting key
in your
narrowed keyhole

of air and wind
down a country track,
a gabbro-built
air-coated bunker
of bleached air,

for in free-winged air,
we flap
through a fort of safety,
as we move on
hurrying within ourselves.