Back To Quiet Streets

I climbed down. There was a sudden gust
of cold mountain air brushing the lip
of a mouth of metal, jagged teeth were clenched,
bared in the face of the open, natural world.
I almost slipped there, up among the clouds,
lost in the dividing line of diminishing shades,
where the sun behind the cliff makes the landscape
shrink and disappear.

A figure bound in clutter, evaporating into himself,
I was a man who'd lost the fire, and was searching for it
out there, in the rugged, wild frontier,
where only ghosts whisper at night
where only animals belong.

When I surfaced to the highways and buildings
I was, once again, a letter in a phrase,
a symbol woven in a tapestry,
trash along the parade route.
But, hidden within me was a natural rhythm,
a song beat into silent foothills,
I had kept a piece of that raging wonder,
so I could visit it alone, when ambling down quiet streets.
Traveling deeper, deeper, into myself.