When dinners' wick has gone black
but the sky and river still see the blue
drop in the other's grey eyes,
the stacked lanterns of windows
light here then again, a festival
to the most ordinary of days.
These moments I want nothing
but to sit under the sound of the laundry
beating warm and steady
as the night flows between buildings,
to let myself darken with the night sky
as it fills with these paper domes,
all the light let go
by a million homes alighting for sleep--
to live outside this body.