Long has fungi fruited in the pit of my stomach.

Long have I severed the stems, like umbilical cords,

And writhed like a babe in your arms.

I wish to gorge myself on sleep.

You know I am hungry to die.

My mouth waters for the bitter taste;

Scorched skin fearing the sun,

And yet I pull away.

Forsake the haste of time, you say,

And interlace your limbs with the string-vines.

Let your axons fuse with the lattice of mycelium

That trembles under your moss bed.

Debase yourself, and come home.