Stitches That Won't Stick Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Spools of cream
and silver
stringed beads
in sprayed broomsticks

swinging off
straight
and slanted threads

to hang down
in thick
and thin spidery
fiber
and soft wires

for a sewing spree
of crawling
stitches
on earth's floor,

seaming earth
with edges that
don't break
off with
caved-in mouths
to let

the world yawn
out graphite
and onyx clouds
of rowdiness,

as ants of folks
spring out
from anthill homes
to spray
the streets

with bouncing
and bobbing
balls of change.

(ii)

But more spools
of cotton
and lace threads
shoot down

with rattling
droning rains,
more spools
of pearl
and powder

threads shot
down
in tapping,
drumming
rattling
rain drops

flowing from tree
to tree
with stitches
that don't hold
ground firm,

uprooted trees
of folks
springing up
across earth's
unmarbled floor

gripping
no stitch
with crab hands,
as glowing
beads of rain

float and flow
and sink
into earth's mantle.

(iii)

But like termites,
Splashed
Flashes of rain
rise back
with no roots

sticking
to hold the world
together
in locked stitches,

when pops
and puffs of wind
blow into
trumpets of nimbus
clouds

to explode into
more drizzles
and downpours
that soon
cease and melt off.

(iv)

But gongs
and bongs of earth
take over
labyrinths of streets

with more
rain drops
drumming earth's
leather
of splayed earth.

How silver
rain drops plant
flowers
that won't stand
on their roots,

as folks
rain down in ant files
on squares
and floating

flowing
streets
to trumpet out
messages

only brewing more
clouds
to break into
rains that batter
folks soaked
to the bones

with more clouds
from breaking
stitches, leaving
the world
in tumbled anthills
of itself.