Nothing To Grip Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Nothing to grip
and cling to when stretchy air
is slippery grass
as I hang over a crater's mouth.

Those stones and balloons
in a rumbling reservoir
of loud whispers interwoven
with mutters and grumbles.

Voices pound him
in an yawning desert, no friend
to talk to or tie a loop
for a chat in circles

and spiraling winds on wheels
veered back to light
moments by a hearth heating
up a joke into flamy laughs.

(ii)

With no shears from sharp
shark teeth ofpulled-in detritus,
without hands to tug in
friends into my hanging wrecked ship
of a house spinning no roof,

how hollow halls of air
have trimmed tall grasses
and creeping vines
on a grieving friend's head.

Moon head quivering
at shards it has broken into,
bulb head hanging

on a thin shrinking neck breaking
off sprays and splashes
of light oozing out of a ceiling
he never ever touches

to stroke stars and moons
and half-moons and lost tails of comets.

(iii)

Fling off your shears
into the trash can,
where love pops up
with new grasses and fur,

from the sleeping lion
bouncing into air only to grab
light feathers of air.

When life hollows out
into tunnels of running silver
slimming down
to the cotton specks
of thickening winds,

weave a fabric out of it.
Build a tree
from the gossamer spit
of a spider popping out

from the ashes
of a fire blazing
into a tree of flames.

Nothing to grip
is the branch of a flame to grab
sneaking on its shadow,
a moon-lit night taking you

to a stream
you've never seen
just beneath
your lengthened brow.