My metabolism set the western sky ablaze
All conforming to my gaping maw;
Smoke rose up to the moon
And the moon shone down on you.

Rotten wood makes a good home for the oyster mushrooms
Wood that tastes the heterotrophic delight
Wood that was already dead,
Long ago
So you are not a parasite.

Not a nightmare,
Not all the time.

The fire outside your window isn't reaching
It is there,
And triangles became water
With the tangle of currents returning to silence.