The slow perceptions of fungi
are immodest
as a ballerina appearing to bow,
though the crowd, she thinks,
already bows before her.
In spreading bacchanalia,
they lift like vaulty penises
from loose brown duff: Time passes,
they will lose interest, decline to a point
flaccid and spastic.
Yet they count their steps
and curtsies, speaking of ridiculous hands
seeking to fondle the heads of the dying.
Those who’ve known such hunger
can spend what’s allowed them.
