Jesse Breite
Power Outage
Under bed sheets, our legs tangle
in draped covers. After wind and rain,
the house stuttered powerless, numb.
Bright clouds absorb, breathe city light.
Our bodies writhe—our fetal legs lap,
wrestle. Windowed, grounds take off shade.
Houses ghost away to blurry noise.
Green fingers hold, wave out praise.
Electric-quartz lights lose an old authority.
Suddenly thrown, branches rattle on roof.
Rapt in white, our faces engrave cloth.
The house rumbles, erupting light.
A hand reaches from under—frantic, wet.