I thought the road began running
as I walked down the highway of fossils
where I became as ancient as unobserved moonlight.
What was that old sinew taut in my arms
exposed as I waved to passing cars
that wouldn't stop for strangers after midnight?
The powerlines in my nerves were still running
as I figured the streetlights looked funny
glowing in sodium yellow against a canopy
of dead stars that with their last threw out
the brightness from their hearts that
traveled to this darkened defunct road site.
I continued to gather nebulous signs
that exhibited messianic lies and
heretical truths captured in a glance
by the peripheral function of my eyes
and aS I toed the center divider
and passed between fast cars I could
hear a false wind take on a voice like
a loud and rushing sign that said
we suffer just to die that said we
rush in hopes of flight until a
true distance is shown by symbols
better left alone if one desires
happiness in their small life.

Now, some of us know
the language of fallen leaves
scattered across an
asphalt destiny,
and our wish is to lie enraptured
beneath tangled forest trees possessing
a madness that with ease discerns
the meaning of nature's solemn feats
instead of the idiot facts interpreted
by drivers sitting at stoplights.

The sublime, you find it easily when you're not looking
(even in hard times that make the body sing in fear
with the hunted wildlife).
The sublime, you feel it breezily when you're out
and running with the deer.
The sublime, you'll know it certainly when you
pack up and disappear until only the heather
knows your movements where the constellations
mark the year.