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If piles of discarded names and numbers on bar napkins,
jackknife through them and through the dream of hosts,
If crawling under water on a path through the face of music,
drill through the wall and emerge cleansed in oxygen
with punctuations clinging like peeling decals
on a dripping torso kneeling on a white pedestal.
If an arboretum more elegant than living quarters,
waltz past African Violets and fill a partner’s flute
with Mom ‘n Pop champagne by the wide leaves
with little plaques to remind you of all her names.
If you breathe freely inside this floor-safe reception,
slide unnoticed past the end of the unused runway,
riding a raft with full bookcases lashed to the deck.
Put bodyweight against ropes of cathedral bells.
Let them proclaim to all that you have won.
Pull harder so they’ll really know you’ve won.
Michael Philips
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