The poem sets a restless night around a woman whose mind is crowded with worry. Insects gather, moths seem to plan their own destruction inside her head, and the windows are blurred, so the outside world barely registers. The speaker's tone is quiet and watchful. The opening line, "Memory is triangular," hints that the past has sharp corners, and that remembering hurts. The image of melting frames and burning against a "cold, cold winter" suggests people destroying what they keep in order to survive.
Then comes a sudden break: a coal truck slides and falls, and "she finally flies." The poem doesn't say outright what this means, but it reads like a death or a release, and the moths' suicide earlier seems to foreshadow it. The bracketed ending lists all that is lost in an instant: love-hate games, unread letters, settled scores. The mood is bleak and eerie, with a stunned, almost numb sense of how quickly everything unresolved can end.