Ice-Cream Of A White Dove Egret Poem by Felix Bongjoh

Ice-cream of a white dove egret
By Felix Bongjoh
What bug propels the being into an impulsive fancy?
An urge is winter's incense-fan when mouthfuls
of hot chili melt in a summer's sparingly
ventilated hall. The oven from which a hand withdraws
in one instinct to land in a freezer, despising
the moderate cold aroma of a living room. A crave for ice-cream
with a white dove egret in sight before one knows
how a flower merely sprouts. The arrow unleashed to drop
in heaven, when gravity finds it a better home in a gulch.
A journey made before a vessel takes off,
riding through wild waves harnessed by the strong storms
of fancy, the target, if-only, overtaken by roaring foams
splashed on the craggy coast of this-is-really-where-we-are:
a vacuum in the colorless tunnel of no-space
in all-space, where the Sahara Desert invades the mind
yet to learn how crops grow without green fields.
Without seasons. The Bible's Exodus without a flood.