amanita half-eaten
by a white fog of mold
what makes me think
i alone can stay dry
we appear to have entered
a monsoon season
and the spongy moths are mating
having prospered during the drought
the dusty-winged males flutter up
at my every step
through an ankle-high
grove of sassafras sprouts
to my seat against an oak
the sassafras in my thermos
and a seethe of traffic
from the interstate below
losing all its teeth
in the rain-fattened moss
a foot away from my right foot
a green stick caterpillar
clings to the end
of a ghost pipe
the way new beliefs
take root in a convert
held up rigidly
against the clouds
