Although my house consists
of walls, floors, ceilings,
doors, windows and corners,
straight lines, right angles,
my life living in it is
curved, organic, amoebic,
visceral, freeform, flowing,
a place where magic
horizontal words and lines
can meander, bend, curl,
twist as I follow metaphors
down rounded rabbit-shaped
rabbit-holes and up into
dreaming fluffy clouds,
responses responding to
responses floating with
no beginning, no ending.
My house is my tent,
palm-groves and cedars,
my retreat, my palace,
a place of playful work,
my very own paradise,
blooming in the desert of my mere humanity.
