our new apartment,

which isn’t actually brand new anymore,

but still occasionally feels this way

when I commute back to it on the designated free days,

holds up the roof of the house

with massive, old timber.

the beams stand tall and saturated

with rich browns of a tree’s strength

transcending death brought upon man’s axe.

now, when these old swing tunes swell through the night

this place turns into the old wooden barn

located on Tuxedo Junction

somewhere down South

sometime in the hottest of summers

with smells of sweat tea bourbon roaming the roads.

there, far away and long ago,

a part of this soul was once born

and faithfully committed always

and long lost ever since, too.

in this barn, built with hay and clay and hands,

a love grows.

it’s occasionally inhibited,

frequently overwhelming,

then also overflowing,

rarely discouraged,

usually infantile

and always infinite.

…by the way, en passant,

a part of this soul speaking here

was also born

long ago

in the French fields of purple and gold,

also in the summertime,

with a well nearby

and chatter all night long

and wine and bread on the table.

it’s all a mystery, most of all,

and, just as I am,

it, too, is just as out of place at times,

most of the time anyway, as far as I’m concerned.

so between the deep South

and these French fields,

this soul oscillates and flees and frees

itself from homes and homages to these many,

knowing it won’t last anyway, either way.

so here it roams, perpetually poised

by sights of windows and winds,

this schizophrenic soul, willingly admitting always,

and utterly, madly so

to something it’s never truly held

but always sort of known.

it’s a funny, foolish admittance,

but the only one worth grasping of

until it all unfolds.