Understreet Constellations

At midnight the sidewalks loosen their stitches, rain slides down neon and into the grates, and under the buses a pale intelligence threads itself through brick like quiet lightning.

Mycelium listens with a thousand white ears, cataloging spilled coffee, rust, and peach skin. It learns the weight of footsteps by heartbeats, it remembers where the warm pipes hum all winter.

In basements, roots of signal and root of mushroom touch in the dark without introduction. A map blooms neither paper nor screen, only damp silk widening under our arguments.

By dawn, pigeons lift from the station roof as if tugged by invisible stitches below. The city pretends it woke alone, while the earth keeps writing us together.