I saw a Blastoma or whatever
genus of mushroom by the hospital,
and on a January day, no less.
Maybe I was thinking cancer,
I make up names for things
with the dust of memory
and moist scrutiny,
some wry, some wrong.
It was a straight stalk with star-shaped
leaves under a blown-out ball.
Language is of two minds,
neutral and warming with attention,
and hot and ready out of nowhere.
It's like all these little things I see,
shy from a distance,
proud and bold up close,
blushing in a sobriquet.
I get restless and I get tired.
Thoughts bloom and explode,
stream out asides.
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