Ice-Cream Of A White Dove Egret
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.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: experience