A man sits up late at his laptop, writing or perhaps reviewing, while a small moth lands on the screen and spreads its wings against the glow. When the blinking cursor slides beneath it, he murmurs, "Does that feel good?" It's a half-joking, oddly tender question, as if the moth were enjoying a small caress, or as if he were a critic poking at something fragile.
The title invites that second reading. The moth is drawn to light and stuck to something flat and artificial, much like the man himself, who keeps typing while the bedsprings creak in another room. The poem doesn't say who is there or why he isn't, but the detail suggests distance, a life carried on elsewhere while he stays absorbed in work.
The mood is quiet, hot, and slightly lonely. The fan whirs, heat lightning flickers over a skyline, and nothing resolves. His fingers simply keep clattering, and the moth stays pinned in the light.