Mushrooms              
                  

Lounging
in a fruity haze
of mushrooms,
we have no strength
to cough or sneeze,
only to lie among
these cool, damp
parasols,
to let the horizon roll
into a slow meditation
of wood ash
and musky leaves,
to feel these children of darkness
breathe again
as they surround us
with the charmed scent
of almonds and wild mint,
their bodies shimmering
into a ring of sprites
spinning and diving
in a moonlit glade.
So when we pause
to sleep among them
we dance
with their enchanted fury,
wear velvet collars
and blind, milky eyes,
feel our bloodstreams rush
inside their waxy veins—
these foundlings of midnight!
It would be easy to find them
hushed and waiting
in an old apple orchard in Wales.
It would be easy to be good
if we were happy,
if we could spend our lives
veiled and perfumed
under their white umbrellas
glowing in the mist.
But overnight
the perfections of sorrow
spring up
inky and delicate
wherever our feet touched ground,
overnight we wake and become
the cold that rises
from these ghostly funnels
poison-crammed.