The Dream

We are infested with light.
It gathers on the floor of the sea
that tides in the cave of our pelvis;
it sprouts on the limbs of our lungs,
branches over cliffs in our brain,
a bush burning law in a nation.

An organism from an alien world
rocketed down to test and possess
the planet, it feeds on the darkness
that breeds in the core of our cells,
on the unfiltered air in our lungs.
Overnight millions of filaments

root and are thriving. By morning
our skin is transparent, our bones
are black, and we’re radioactive,
barbarously bright. Ablaze
with amazement, we stay in our
bed all day, eclipsing the sun

in its orbit. Afraid we’ll diffuse,
we don’t move, not a muscle
or bone or an eye-beam. Still
by noon we can feel citizens
disintegrating on streets,
murdered by light. Seasons

accelerate. In the wink of an eye
blossoms are apples that ripen
flames, clusters of grapes are coals.
Antlers of deer arc torches, and
buffalos burn to a crisp on the spit
of their bones. The sea pulls

to a dead stop. Whales rise like zeppelins.
By midnight the earth is pure mineral
ore, melting to white at its center.
Ravenous, we embark