‘People thought fungi repulsive, and I wanted

to show how beautiful they can be.’

Here, in the looking –

beyond the rot,

a duplicity.

The glass is molasses;

I tease it with pliers

into a raft of mycelium,

fruiting and threading,

an asexual labour

of love,

hyaline, gutless,

brittle beauty tinted pink

hardening under the light.

And how to make the roots?

Not quite on little cat feet,

not quite a tub with lion's claws,

a bit like a faun, sprung

on tendon and bone

or something reptilian on hot sand

caught in the act of movement

exact as notes, the placement

the lift –

From this matter

I draw five hyphae-with-intent

to spread into fruiting bodies

beaded sporocarps,

where sweetness pools and drips

and yet to touch, the finest hairs

melt to nothing

on my skin, too delicate

for cellulose or lignin.

Contingent as mist

we rise up like little loaves

with dark spores

blaze our hackles, haring

across the greenest crucifers,

sinking into pulp,

waiting for the softest

fruits to fall.

Here, in the looking –

beyond the rot, we float,

wait for you to see.