A Waking Moth in Winter (or The Basement Light)

Last night, I left the basement light on.

The stairs creaked and my paper-thin pajamas

rustled as the sickly little bulb pulled me close.

Before I knew it there was a twist of the doorknob 

that could not but must have been 

by my own hand.

Snow stretched way, 

way up so that there must have been nothing else in the world but cold,

and what little air stayed in my lungs then 

must not have been enough.

I don’t know how long I ran,

or why either.

My fingers blacken now, 

and numb,

and the dim basement light does next to nowt to warm them.