We hide the baby when the lights go out. When bright light scatters the sky, down we go. Into the ground with our blankets and kettles, the metal of our chair legs scraping the concrete. Play patty cake with the ghosts in our cellar, red rover with the lovers losing their sweetness. How they hover provocatively over the washing machine, the cans of rotting fruit. Everything we saved for later gone bad with every season. The baby busts open a box of stale raisins while we sleep beneath a thousand mattresses piled one atop the other, while outside, the wind takes one house then another.