What makes light, wakes us;
what shapes light guides us inside days.
We drink it through our skin; we are
wet with its silver scales. It sticks
through holes like big nails, scratches
us and we bleed light back. It squirts
out of sudden conduits ñ broken windows,
shifted curtains, open doors, It drips
from leaves, cleaning them greener,
slides like mercury released; it flows
up slopes and hides behind shadows.
Light must spill over all we are
and all we do. Light alone survives us;
We die in open places and light
will shine our bones the whiter.
