Personal Death as the Apocalypse

Mushrooms & apples & luminous fog—
the dark time lowers upon us. I hear winter coming
to turn me into a haunted guitar.

Polypores cluster into a rotting stump,
eating the lignin & cellulose
eating the cell walls
as the maw of the earth oozes forth
amid the humid miasma of pinwheel marasmius
& angel wings
embedded & fluttering
on the forest floor.

Moths crawl broken through maidenhair ferns, croaking
I thought I heard music.