Manure Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Nothing wastes
away into
feathers of air.

Every matter
Cuts and grinds
itself into
an arrowed storm

shooting up
a skyscraper
of a caroled tree
singing
in the melting
wind of winds

drumming window
panes
with the hue
of dung,


the branches
of a building
flipping out stars
and lace orchids
at night,

a gouged
inner bowl
manured
by metal shadows

molded
by pitch and grease,

a dung
from the mooing
cow of a wind
braided

into the dreadlocks
of shredded
swaying leaves
swept by both

gale and the stormy
broom

specks poured
out by trash cans
of sky, rattling

barrels pushed off
by tossed-off
brooms' mouths
muttering
in a lowered tone.

(ii)

When a hurricane
rumbles,
but sunlight

sprays
only seafoam
and dark hue
of the galloping horse,

staggered
rain and drizzle,

leaving stains
on a hanging
dawn sky
swallowed
by dust bins spitting
out squiggles.

O porcupine
quill trash
from a trash dump

writing letters
in the storm

to high sea waves
dumping
off silt and debris

of old ship
wrecks boarding
a ship,
a large-mouthed truck

racing
to the collapsing
hill
of compost
manure,

birds eating
breakfast
to manure the sky

for a buzz
of murmuration,
as birds
in sky trains
of gale and storm
honk.

The last round
of sprinkled
drops fall

in waxy
moss green sheathes
to manure
shredded trees,

flying hairs
of storm,
as they grow

from mouths
manured
for a wailing funeral.