Hypothesis

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.