Song of the mushroom girl

There are mushroom mornings, dawn feet on wet grass
and a garden delicately ash-browned
here and there
fine-sand pop-ups;
heen-veli-hathu
take up position
on some lightening-nights
in elemental indetermination;
I don’t know if they descend
from morality or impertinence,
of if they are fed
by the fertilizer of hope,
or if it’s all a play
on mind’s gullibility,
but that’s how you come
in un-witnessed overnight showering
that’s how you come
and go in midday heat,
girl of fine-sand truancy.

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