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,
then also overflowing,
and always infinite.
…by the way, en passant,
a part of this soul speaking here
was also born
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.