This! then

that, then,

that, then,

this!

This, this, this!

 

Lyra’s deictic mind grasps only what’s at hand,

pink ball or Sophia ball, but not both,

which can’t be held together because

the diameter of now fills her reach

with no remainder for before or next.

 

Why do we envy this charming incapacity

that rushes at horizons unencumbered

by any need to know what it’s about to step on?

Do we miss holding one big moment long enough

to note its hermetic sidewalk scuffs,

or the face of a Disney princess who was once like you and me?

 

So we banish desire and regret.

 

 “Dawo”—“that one”—

no verb to sever thing from state,

or suture states into embraceable objects.

Just the event.

 

“Dawo”--one finger points

and the rest curl back.

 

But Lyra’s hand springs open just before it closes to a fist.

For her things cast no shadows ahead or behind,

no doomed hope, no grief--

“one, two, nine, ten, nine, ten, nine, ten”—

or worse, hopes fulfilled to set her up

for sixteen pounds of disappointment.

 

“one, two, nine, ten”--

here comes Sophia ball hooking from true,

away from Lyra’s open arms again.

It heeds the love propelling it no more

than a river flowing at its own sweet will,

and she stands still and screams with joy, not knowing

it’s not new.