The Dying Art of Exact Change

We are a kind of lichen,
You and us. We form a crust
That covers the rock, sometimes

Flakes off, might land somewhere else.
Without you, we’d not exist.
Without us, you’re animals.

But what lichen doesn’t know,
Maybe never can, is what
Sort of partnership we’ve got.

Commensal? Mutualist?
Are we words exploiting you?
Are you beasts deploying us?

And for what? To cover rock,
Glow in the sun and hang on?
And maybe there’s some third thing

Between us or emerging from us,
A kind of life that’s not us,
As if thoughts dreamt for themselves.