these voices sound in the night like softly jingling light bulbs 

that have long retired to couches and front porches

they dangle, they creak, they perturb 

and once in a while, they light for a few seconds

only to go back at once to resting

it is easy to get caught in this momentary flash in the sky, this warmth

to wish and pray, to build pyres and temples

to coax this familiar glow and clarity to come more often

it is easier to do this all this than it is to look down to the market 

where brilliant lights glow all night, and we, by ourselves

have to risk traveling there all alone, and greater yet,

risk that the lights will not be there when we arrive