Whether it's true

that the moth mistakes the candle's flame

for the moon or the bioluminescent

pheromones of another moth,

I can't say.

I was the candle.

I was the flame

conceived in and by reason of

darkness, nibbling on a darkening wick.

When moth after moth after moth

swarmed me with their powdery wings,

I asked why.

I asked how.

I asked if

I could survive knowing

that not everything has a reason,

that not everything is capable

of or interested in reason.

Nothing answered.

Nothing spoke

my language of smoke.