Art, Interrupted

My hands
ink stains, nicotine stains
black and yellow tattoos
in motion, writing, smoking
my hands, my soul
steeped in ink and
pressed to paper
the rest of me
bent over pages
a silent detachment
from birds and morning

a small white gold moth
lands on my words
I stop my breath.
I stop my hands.
The moth stops too.
Nothing moves,
the birdsong fades
the wind trembles, dies
the sun arrests on the horizon
no breathing, no heartbeat
just the slow circulation of thoughts
mine, or the moth's?

with tremendous beating
it
rises
silent and deliberate
through cigarette smoke

I am amazed to find
that the coal burns at my fingertips
and has not faded
in the freezing of time.

I am amazed
that the moth had landed
despite the burning,
the coils of smoke.
Didn't it think I was a fire --
or did it think I was a light?