by Shawn Allen
I am a complex architecture.
A great house built of materials and ideas;
things of substance, and ephemera.
I am gardens and cellars, porches, cupboards and balconies.
I am stairways for ascending and for going down.
I am doorways for standing wide and others
to remain tightly closed and locked.
I am hallways long and short; some that go places
and some that stretch to the horizon, and perhaps beyond.
I have many windows for gazing outward,
and great storerooms of mirrors, for looking within.
I am bedrooms for sleeping,
and libraries for learning and dreaming.
I have a studio for creating new things,
and a gallery that echoes with memories.
I have closets for skeletons and secrets,
and for storing what I am not prepared to give up,
and just for the hanging of clothes.
Many of my various rooms are fully furnished
while there are whole wings that are empty. They wait.
Most rooms are open and public.
The attic belongs to me. (And the bats.)
The basement belongs to itself, and no other.
I am pillars for bearing up,
and a tool-shed for tearing down.
I am rooms for dining with friends,
and others for dancing with strangers.
I have window-seats, salons, chapels and ceilings.
I am a rambling and difficult architecture.
Come inside, and explore.