The power’s been out for days. Wind storms
have knocked down the lines, and a cold grey
has settled into the backyards and side streets
of the city, now quiet but for a few windows
that flicker with dimming candles and the cars
casting their light like fishermen into a dark sea.
From here, I gaze out wondering where you are
and if you see the same bridge, the same orchards,
the same unlit homes where strangers stumble
through rooms full of night, each voice like mine
calling out to the palpable quiet, Is that you?
Is that you? What should I make of this silence
while all that you do not say sleeps in the walls
filled with crackling wire, sparking heat?