Wrist Deep

Sitting on a rock on the bottom floor
of the Comfort Inn, in Knoxville Tennessee,
the moths cast their shadows across
the walls from the light cast to light
the building. And on them you can see many,
many small creatures, living their tiny lives,
maybe, or maybe not wondering who they are
or what they are doing. Might they simply be
attracted to the light? I smoked my simple cigarette
and wanted maybe to die then.

As the larger moths made their way across the ray
they spread their shadows like large asymmetrical angels,
made their presence known to the people who may
or may have not have been staying in those rooms.

There were two or three circling then,
as if the light were carrion,
as if the light were something
they could gain their sustenance from.

And I too gained my sustenance
from the shadows cast upon the granite walls.

I did not wish to cry then.
I wished only that it could go on forever
like that. These things, doing their small dances,
doing their little things, making their way
into forever, as if that were the only thing to do,
as if it were the only thing they could do.