If I am not pushing through space lips first

Poem XIII

Hieronymus Bosch, The Temptation of St. Anthony (detail), c. 1500

If I am not
pushing
through space
lips first
like a fish—

If I am not
swelling
with unseen
meaning
(and leaking)—

If I am not
trembling
like far fire
in the pitch
of night—

If I am not
drinking
from the
dream
creek—

If I am not
rolling
around the
sun with
my homies—

If I am not
sleeping
like a subzero
bug behind
a sheet of snow—

If I am not
falling
in time
like
an eyelid—

If I am not
a mug
of milk tea
on the
mountain—

If I am not
painting with
masticated
berries
and lard—

If I am not
burning
the braid of
this body-
wick down—