light. Your power
returns in stages
till you hear the heat
as water begins
to bubble forth.

You forget how
to sit on a stoop
and watch poetry
appear between
the gaps. A sidewalk

in need of repair. You
still have a purpose.
The way you used to
go out after dark
into the black-out

night. The way you embrace
the time before civil
dawn now. Walk
the streets,
counting all the broken

lights. Your power

so entangled in the cords
you unplugged to survive.
Tunnels or skyways—you must
decide which way to travel
all over again.