Fungi
They are pale as our brains—not really plants,
Secret machines of arboreal rants,
Their obscure mumbling among the trees.
These earthy webs gossip. They make free
With what greenery is too dumb to tell.
We chew up strange mushrooms for potent spells,
These ghoulish, philosophical beings,
For nauseous visions, truly seeing
The fractals that haunt all nature’s house
And appear when fungal dreams carouse.
The Lizard
Lit by the core of your narrow spine,
Mutation’s jewel, simulacrum of stone;
Oh, the purity of reptilian design—
It’s hard to believe there’s guts in those bones.
Through shells of valence does artifice peek?
Heraldic in scales, armored and cool
As though Eden’s machinery sprung a leak
When carbon made you one of its tools.
From dinosaur tracks and Triassic mist
This tiny present, a Darwinian kiss.
Elizabeth Hurst
If you have any thoughts
about these poems,
Elizabeth Hurst would like to hear them
