flickering bathroom light

i want to be less desperate
but i always come to the bathroom without hands.
the bulbs fill with moths
hungry for a bit of god. they take pictures.
spit the film into the air. our faces the size
of fingernails. 
once i followed the moths inside.
the light bulb was huge
like a gymnasium. i asked the moths,
"how long can we survive here?"
they said, "until you have to sleep."
my eyes became tunnels. the train ran through
them with her horn loud & wild. 
i walked to the very edge of the bulb.
looked out at the bathroom. it was like
seeing earth from space. me, the suiteless
astronaut. the moths left without me.
i had to break the bulb. glass in my hair.
glass on the floor. i picked shards from
my hands. cleaned up quiet as i could.
washed the wounds in the shower.
the mold had a voice it said,
"look at your teeth." crooked as ever.
the graveyard in my mouth. 
i felt embarrassed that i had, like the moths,
followed my stomach so far from 
my bones. then again, there must be 
a reason they always return. the bulbs go out
one by one. crowded train stations
or waiting rooms or maybe colosseums.
then the bathroom is dark & the mirror is 
a portal into the blue place.  i am the one
who replaces the lights. reaches to screw in
each new star. the room, drenched again
in white glow. the moths, waiting patiently 
like highwaymen on the crown of the room.