Wallowing Silence Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

A bumped-out rug of earth
spins a taupe floor, swirling
beneath pegged legs

holding in place horses
perched on towers of silence

in quiet carved-out
cocoons carrying rivers
flowing quietly with themselves.

An arched neck, a horse
nibbling off a dose
of grass it mines and scoops
out with a tongue

sheltering teeth turned
spiraling hoe and spade
and the blade
that slashes at one go.

(ii)

A laid-back dog clothed
like a chameleon
in still ashy patches
bawls out in silence's cloak

at hard rocky pieces
of numb slabs, sniffing
sun-rayed shadows

of mountains peeking at
mirrors, the beaming
backs and faces
of tall-shouldered mountains

shuffling with each other,
as the sun expands its cream
and beige spray
across a bright silver screen.

(iii)

The world is wrapped up
in labyrinths of mutters
shot by two herdsmen
into each other's eyes,

strings of quiet whispers
burying them in deep

tight-lipped gorges carrying
volcanoes that explode
into their faces
with blooming flowers of silence.

In their blanketed cocoons
rising above their heads,
indigo screens of jumping
mountains drift,

standing in frozen trays
chopping off grazing air
braying with an ambling wallowing

silence of mountains
in full emerald and hunter gowns
and frocks flying

in spirals of silence, love's helices
dressing up a chopper
landing on rising knolls.