Madam, you are enticing me again;

you are tickling my funny bone

with these mushrooms you have grown up in the night.

They are the tender oddments of your thought:

Stinkhorns, Earth Stars, Corals and Clubs,

graceful or gross, bland or gall

and I have stolen them to lay along a paper towel.

Trapped again, enchanted,

I am your creature.

You have made me smile,

raining down your storm of dusty fingerprints:

miniature nebulae,

coronas behind black stars.