Jungle Walks

The gods of asphalt and pure dirt 
Do not disdain each other’s tread. 
The jungle’s feet 
Stalk through the city like lost deer 
Or bears 
Or monkeys. 
There’s no line 
That says this corner is for man, 
This for the simians. 
Among the trees— 
Tall, twisted, stringy, aged trees 
And young— 
The tea stand, 
Razor wire, 
The chin-up bar all creep. 
Small gardens grow 
Deep in the thickets, 
Secretly, 
Like rough roots seize a wall 
Downtown. 

There is an island 
Called a hill 
Lapped by a restless liquid town, 
The green of Eden 
Long before the Fall, 
The green of leaves, 
Self-willed, 
The darkest green the sun can feed. 
To this hill they flee 
From offices, 
From wheels, 
From lists of things 
To do, 

To buy, 
To be. 
I flee there, too, 
By night at times, 
To breathe the darkness of the leaves, 
To hark the heartbeat of the stars. 
Yes, of the stars. 
It shakes the windows like a scream, 
A werewolf scream. 
I hear it answer in my throat. 
I shed the trail, 
Claw through the kitchen-curtain veil, 
Crawl with the snakes, 
Who also scrape their skin 
On rocks and jagged moments of the trees, 
Climb with the monkeys, 
Talk with God, 
Who blesses every atom 
With itself. 
Long-fallen leaves 
And bits and pieces of the earth 
Slip past my citified veneer. 

Then I go home 
And wash the jungle off, 
Not out.