Subway Mycelium

At dawn the station exhales warm iron. Between tiles, a white thread of fungus maps its patient alphabet through grout, reading yesterday's rain by taste.

Trains arrive like struck tuning forks, their doors opening small weather systems: coffee breath, wool coats, ozone, a chorus of wet umbrellas folding.

Under the city, roots and cables braid, both carrying messages no one can hold. Mushrooms bloom overnight in forgotten planters, pale lanterns lit by the dark itself.

By evening the platforms glitter with mica and gum; we climb to streetlight, thinking we rose alone. But spores ride our cuffs into kitchen light, teaching concrete how to remember forests.