Mycelium Under Platform Six

At midnight the trains exhale and go blind. Along the tiled throat of Platform Six, workers hang wet burlap like winter coats, and spores drift down, pale as breath on glass.

By dawn, small moons push through the dark- oyster caps opening their careful ears. The station lights hum in sodium chords, coins in the turnstiles answer like rain.

Commuters pass with coffee and weather on their sleeves, not seeing the white threads stitching mortar to mortar. Beneath their footsteps, the city learns a softer engine: roots without roots, a patient electric lace.

At week's end we harvest baskets of quiet. Soup steam climbs the apartment windows. Even rusted rails smell briefly of cedar and salt, as if the underground remembered it was once a forest.