Hyphae, Toadstool

Laurie Klein

. . . small things hardly noticeable . . . 

can unexpectedly become . . .

unmeasurable. —Rainier Maria Rilke

Invisibly ravenous, under our feet

the palest filaments grope,

blind attraction abetting

instinct—in turn, begetting

the exponential: Tendrils

siphon the stored rain, ingeniously

self-prune, tightening borders until,

overnight, damp little trolls in helmets

erupt all over the lawn. Oh dear,

un-endearing toadstools, endowed

with veins, pores, wrinkles, teeth: You

colonize the forgotten,

be it sponge or cellar, even summer glens

far away as the South Pole. How is it

your deckled, rice-paper gills

approximate pages from human history

rife with conquest? One more species

claims the next resource, overlooking

what’s underground. I suppose

what I miss most,

between all our covert reaching

and outright seizure, is

that commonwealth once called

marvel. All else, being insolence.

Laurie Klein is the author of Where the Sky Opens and Bodies of Water, Bodies of Flesh. Read more.

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