Mantra Of Smoke Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Let smithereens
of me
whistle in a storm
with a parrot's
mantra of smoke,

the locksmith's
smelted gold
shutting me off
every spiral of gray,

but leaving
walls of fog
to dress me with haze
from cigarette butts,

non-smoking
corridors leading to
cliffs of passengers
standing

at the closed-in
edge of a plot
woven by polluted
eyes hurled
at each other
in a tide of peeks.

Why is everybody
closed into
themselves, as they still
build palisades

and tall fences
around them
with their smoky gazes
at each other.

(ii)

Let my eyes
shoot through corridors
to drill me
into tunnels of sight

flanked by smoky
telescopic eyes
of cameras flipping
out arrows of light.

Smoke wears
slate and pebble coats
running down

aisles of alabaster
and cotton rays
jumping from smoky
folks with smoke
in their pockets.

There's smoke
everywhere,
everybody
digging a tunnel
to the walkway's
cutting mile post,

every smoky dude
riding smoke
from wildfires.

Locked in and bolted
by smoke into
our fumy selves

fighting against storms
of mice and roaches
we cannot grab,

we dart glances at
each other
in labyrinths of peeps
and peeks
trapping us

in a graphite
and pewter air
of more smoke.

(iii)

It's just smoke
and smoky eyes
jammed
at check-out points,

no smoke from
Sahara's melting smog
from wild fires,
no smoke from fires

swelling
in south east Australia
but pitch
and jet black soot

from one
of our
fellow passengers
not cleared customs,

as a mantra
of smoke runs from
eye to eye.