You magically sprout
in middling places
like the crevices in pavements
and in between kitchen tiles
owning the liminal.
You first popped up
near the Magic Faraway Tree,
home to the Red Gnomes.
Cherry red with white polka dots,
nestled in green,
I searched for you in vain
around the longkang behind my block.
Now I see you glistening on china –
gourmet fare, the vegetarian’s steak,
swimming in black pepper, garlic, olive oil,
sautéed, souped, sandwiched, swirled in butter.
Born to soak in all that surrounds,
you are a mystery, mycelium.
Neither plant nor animal,
you play by your own rules.
At your whim you
please, poison or send
to ethereal planes.
After the rain,
you shoot up to line the curb,
moving stealthily along rot,
your thousand spores ready to burst
onto another day, another world.
When this world dies,
perhaps only you will survive.
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