The Mind's Eye

                 We call the moon the moon
                                      —Donne
 
We call this night the night,
for sleep is always itself, and dream,
and by the light of habit
our habits are illuminated.
 
Like light thrown back on itself
until it grows single-minded,
the mind cuts glass, etches steel,
and burns with pure attention.
 
We call a solo diner a party
of one. The mind's party 
is always on, especially when it's late,
it's lonely, and it's crowded with dark.
 
For fields are different every hour:
light changes more than rain, snow,
the withering harvest. We walk them
expecting to be changed, as we are.
 
Work, we call whatever it is
we do often or well. We talk,
give thanks, think of reasons
for postponement. We work like hell.
 
We call despair despair, and a shiver
nothing but. The moon is cold,
we say, frigid ourselves, and searching
a cold beauty. We call the end
 
the beginning. It is the end.
 
     Poetry 150.6 (September 1987): 321.