The day retired in milk, that summer light
Filtered through enough clouds that the day,
Long as it was, never seemed ascending
Nor declining. Daughter read about Morris
The Moose in an antiquated children's book
Printed when body was a child and self
Was something similar to self now, likely,
But long, long gone and lost to mind.
Shadowy green fell across the page. Why
Is this like that, daughter asked of the book.
Morris the Moose learned to count in a day.
Mind never learned to count in a lifetime.
Body's book on the desk read something
Like this, The components of the concept
Are still there, but they lose their status
As necessary and sufficient conditions.
Nothing called across the lake.
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