We know. It’s a useless British holiday
Having nothing to do with us in the dusty
Southwest U.S. Nonetheless. There’s daughter
Sleeping between her Harry Potter sheets.
There’s a moon shining over her in full retreat.
It’s been ten spins around the sun and then
Some. If you want this poem to tell you what
A poem could tell you or almost anyone, you
Must accept we all are, all have been, all have
Always been, as we always must be in this, the house
Of dust, been some. By the time daughter wakes, this
Numeral will have, as day, become. By then, this
Arbitrary distinction, realer than it knows, will have gone.
Or is gone. Will have. Has been. Given. Boxes,
Oh, boxes on boxes, oh, given, oh, already gone.
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