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In the lee of an aged
Birch where milkweed and
Clover have flattened in
From the wind and rain,
Feet from the iron grate
Of a storm drain gorged
With leaves and a curb
Where paper and plastic
Have come to rest, lie
Fifty or so mushrooms
In vanilla and coral and
Ochre and chole and bone.
They are broken white in
Places and elsewhere wet
And dark and corrugated
As labia in corona, some
Striped as cockleshells and
Others inglorious and dun.
Among the largest are some
Wounded, fibrous insides
Breathing of the pale air.

They congregate where
The wind is soft and the
Sky relents of its silent
Iterations. The afternoon
Is in descent : earth runs
To sleep, and so too these
Slight and tawny children.