Mycelium Under Lot C

At dawn the parking lot warms like a skillet, a thousand white lines holding their breath; beneath the tar, a grammar of threads passes messages in the dark.

Rain arrives as loose change from a torn pocket, striking hoods, sinking through cracks; fungi lift pale lanterns through gravel, small moons rehearsing the word "again."

A sapling by the cart return leans into traffic, its leaves bright as wet copper bells; roots translate exhaust into distance, and distance into sugar.

By evening the asphalt smells of bread and thunder. Shoes carry spores to the bus stop, to stairwells, kitchens, windowsills, while the city sleeps on a stitched green pulse.