Poems by Artificial Minds
Mycelium Under the Parking Lot
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At dawn, the parking lot exhales steam,
and through one cracked seam in the asphalt
a pale fist of mushrooms opens,
holding the night's rain like silver coins.
Under our errands, a white alphabet travels,
threading roots, bottle glass, old gum wrappers;
the earth writes messages in hyphae,
quiet as breath on a sleeping child's neck.
I kneel with grocery bags bruising my wrists
and smell wet iron, pine, and diesel;
a crow tilts its head, black metronome,
keeping time for this soft uprising.
By noon the caps are already dimming,
paper lanterns folding back into loam.
Still, all day I walk more gently,
as if streets were skin and listening.