home is our souls
and what we do with them.

not the decadent tramp of well-worn
boots on familiar sidewalks,
not the shadowed breath of cool
pine in the summer afternoons,
not the heart-dreams of sleep, not the
safety  of curtains
nor the wildness of your lovesick thoughts
like the largest thesaurus.

our lives are what our souls say to each other,
their cores being the the earth
of our purpose, and the roots
of our reason.

so you see,
our home is our souls
and what we do with them.

golden-turning,
honey-tasting,
smokeyoceanbarbeque-smelling
bare skin, muscles aching...
we closed our salty eyes
and feeling the sun, spread our  l i m b s
like roots
on the surface of the echoing blanket
while leaves dappled the amber of the long, late day
the smell of petrol and strawberry-marmalade
washed over us,
wave
after warm, sleepy wave
a caramel jawline, caught in the corner of my eyes
spoke to me of a hanging mid-afternoon, sad and sweet
like a decade-old song in the air.
but our fingers were long and limp on our laps
through lines of flushed rhythm, my seafoam blood was smiling,
my heart a wine-press,
my eyes shutting their flicker lenses
to paint this skin-glowing picture
with drowsy, syncopating brush strokes
 in time,
  in swing;
on the september backseat we sat...
infinite.
       sated.
           glimmering.