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94 Lord of Spores Of all the things I’ve stolen from outside houses left abandoned in the woods, it isn’t the rusted wagon wheels or bull skulls I admire most. It’s the mushrooms lifted from the edges of runoff trenches and mounds of sod topping septic tanks. Fungus clings to these lost places same as it does burn zones and gullies, as if the organism truly were of one great mind, like the kraken in his sea, and had learned to communicate with vacancy, to figure where it ought to send sprouts next. I pull them, let them drop to a cloth bag. I fry them with flour and spice or stir them with a boil of nettles. If a corpse ever observed my approach from a chair beside a second floor window, hissing all alone like a toilet will, let its rot speak to that great mind of how delicately I stepped on the moss, and of how there is nothing to me that won’t someday be bound with it. ...

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