Subway Mycelium

Under the avenue, white threads are listening, stitched through clay, bottle glass, and rusted nails; each pulse of the train shakes loose a little dark, and the dark remembers how to feed a root.

Above, neon trembles in rainwater puddles, headlights comb the wet backs of parked cars; below, the hidden orchard keeps its patient weather, breathing in brake-dust, breathing out tomorrow.

A child drops an orange peel through a grate, it lands like a small sun in the under-soil; by morning the peel has become a rumor of sweetness, passed hand to hand by unseen mouths.

So the city survives by what it cannot praise: soft labor, silent mouths, luminous decay. From broken things, a grammar of green rises, leafing its vowels into the cracked concrete.