Mycelium Beneath the Last Station

At the terminal where maps end in a black square, we unbolt a shutter and descend with buckets of rain. The tracks keep their iron pulse above us, but below, the dark is soft as bread.

Rows of oyster caps lift like pale ears from coffee grounds and yesterday's headlines. A fluorescent hum drips blue on our sleeves; the air tastes of pennies, moss, and steam.

Commuters thunder overhead, carrying weather on their coats, while we thin the clusters, whispering with knives. Each cut opens a moon-white bruise, each crate fills with small, patient lanterns.

By dawn we climb out smelling of forest, city light snagged in the wet of our boots. At the market table, someone asks where they grew. We point down, where roots have learned concrete.