Leopards

I suspect that my skull

is perfect,

that only my fillings would

give me away.

That it could safely suffice

as a specimen,

in the palm of an archaeologist

some day.

But I wonder more

of the soft bits,

returned to the soil and seas.

Speeding through fibres

of mycelium,

suffusing leopards and trees.

I suspect that my soul

is boundless;

it is one with all mushrooms and moons.

Bear this in mind as

as you dust off my skull,

as you scratch out my being

with spoons.