Younger Rooms

The house I wrote this poem in became an apartment for the ocean, then a zoo for the innocently maladjusted, then a garden for dreaming cats, then floor-space - just floor space to walk back and forth on. The room I find these words in, these metaphors, these bewilderment’s these vernal chimes of a younger blood, flood me now, now in my narrow redoubt, now in my condo-maze-ment, my spindle-boned easement. Once I was a simile, similar to something else, a green fracture, the unseasoned sap of an analogy, now look at me. I am upholstered, a place roomy enough for a younger poem, for returning to younger words, finding ghosts in the spaces between them, breathing through vowels, with their open lungs, their brain dizzying songs. Revisiting underlining, unearthing blind roots, simple cyclic thoughts as if they had just come to me, and had not been arriving from freshly abandoned living-spaces places excavated from under the forgotten foundations of elsewhere.