CALL ME BELOVED

I used to watch the moon, always finding the face
empty – it haunted me, hanging impossibly silent and gray.
there came a certain point – the wonder couldn’t grab me
with its kaliedoscope stare, and I no longer sat rapt with attention.
I haven’t lost anything, not even my way. It’s more subtle, like
a growing fondness to dismiss my former elation and thrill
as the fantacism of my college days, a temporary psychosis
that all twenty-something english majors endure.
I convince myself that I’m coming out of it – as if any day now
I’ll see the daylight in it’s proper cynicism, when the truth is
that it’s all the white noise of a tired and apathetic muscle
I’ve neglected to flex.