Dumb and blind, you resurrect into sunlight
out of the face of the host. Your rooted emanation
worm-shaped as the humble one you sprang from.
Isn’t mimicry akin to love? Even a parasite deserves
glory, crawling your grubby scrawl of breathless
urge from dung-wet clay to elongation. Out of the big
darkness, your ochre tongue licks toward dappled shadow.
In some places the poor will rout you out, make tea
from your body, transmogrifying fungal musk and tang
into virility. Men will believe the strength in partaking
of your protrusion, erect and vivid. Commune
with the ground upon which we all kneel.
Search for the nubbin born from the wheeled spore,
life wicking up from death’s mute and mutable door.
A Literary Field Guide to