I have this recurring dream

in which the world,

this one outside my house,

is crumbling, breaking, toppling

over sideways until it crashes

and falls. Roofs cave in

on people; you can hear screams

echo down the street. As trees pull out

of the ground, the moon fizzles through

the sky like a busted balloon.

In some of the dreams, hordes of animals

turn up—thousands of apes loose in Iowa,

herds of zebra and wildebeests in Aberdeen.

One time, dinosaurs trampled through NYC

while blue whales beached themselves

on the shores of inland rivers and lakes.

Like you, I think of dreams

as mild entertainment, quirky little

mysteries and absurdities that seem

harmless, good for kitchen table talk, fodder

for stories and poems. But then, I hear

the news on the radio and TV; I read about Ebola

and viruses, bombings, massacres, screwworms

and the dreams begin to make sense. Each morning,

I wake up and try to wash myself clean.