Paper Lanterns

They rise as if the dusk were kind,

a congregation made of flame.

Each paper body, thin as mind,

forgets the hand that spoke its name.

We watch them climb the river's throat,

a slow gold grammar in the air.

Whatever we had meant to note

is written there, then written elsewhere.

When one goes out, we do not speak.

The dark is just another art.

A lantern is a kind of week

the heart spends learning how to part.