The scientists say fungi are more closely related to animals—to us—
than multicellular plants. The truth: the shiitake in your fridge
             would treat you better than half the men in the bar tonight,

and it’d taste better too.

I won’t cry when the Anthropocene ends.
             Instead, I’ll breathe in the spores and thank God.

You’re calling it the apocalypse,

and I tell you that it means lifting the veil—

I tell you this thing is ancient—a revelation. This is the last orgasm.
             It’s Eternity. Soft skulls of mushrooms are pushing up
             through our pores

and I’m whispering to you that they’re loving us like men would—
             eating us raw, sucking on our bones, marrying our bodies—
             only, this is better than men.

             But when the mycelium fills my mouth, and I can no longer
             breathe, I want to tell you how
             you remind me of the moon; to hold your hand;
             to let you know

I’m still here, but this

             is inescapable.

You’re looking at me with eyes that ask
             if this is the end, but I think:

This feels like
             coming home.

with design by Anthony Cody 

If I can’t save us

then let me feel you
happy and safe 
under my chin. 

If this will drown 
or burn 

then let us drink starlight
nap under trees
sing on beaches—

the morning rush to sit indoors
what, again? 

If we are dying

then let me rip open
and bleed Love,
spill it, spend it
see how much 
there is

the reward for misers is 
what, again? 

If this life is ending

then let me begin 
a new one 

Like all
who believe in the senses,
I was an accountant,
copyist,
statistician.

Not registrar,
witness.

Permitted to touch
the leaf of a thistle,
the trembling
work of a spider.

To ponder the Hubble’s recordings.

It did not matter
if I believed in
the party of particle or of wave,
as I carried no weapon.

It did not matter if I believed.

I weighed ashes,
actions,
cities that glittered like rubies,
on the scales I was given,
calibrated
in units of fear and amazement.

I wrote the word it, the word is.

I entered the debt that is owed to the real.

Forgive,
spine-covered leaf, soft-bodied spider,
octopus lifting
one curious tentacle back toward the hand of the diver
that in such black ink
I set down your flammable colors.

—2018