Night Rain in a Busy City

Three stories down, on the street,
clusters of black and grey umbrellas throb
and heave, like mushrooms breaking

through separated soil and stagnant air,
devouring deformed puddles in gilled
shadows. Beading rain expands

across nylon like haploid spores,
forming strands of watery glass
domes, like pulsating hyphae.

Each entity becomes bioluminescent,
pouring forth toxic yellow, red, and white
light, stoplight reflections seen through a window

streaked with clouds and gutter water,
working like a broken kaleidoscope. Outside
a pane stained with ghost fungus breath,

I watch puddles stamped with footprints
crack, hollow out in the middle,
and crumble like the shell of an empty egg.