You think it’s today, but it’s yesterday, always.
You think you think, but it was thought thought you,
Perhaps thanks not even to memory but
Mostly, vide Tononi, to densely patterned integration
Of synthesized information, including the recent,
That which you call, hah, the now, the today,
And the ancient you call all your foolish yesterdays.
You are there, now. You were here, then. You’ve been
The pattern that declares itself aware of self since, well,
Whenever. Well, I never. And you? You park your white
Toyota Tacoma with Washington plates to discuss
If this is a good spot for a hike. Together, you
Decide yes, pop in and out of the truck like gophers,
Getting your gear, refilling your water bottles,
Applying white sunscreen to the edges of your ears,
Your young, pink, perfectly healthy ears. Your franchised,
Well-made, well-advertised, recently purchased gear.
Finally, the pair of you disappear. Off into the wild
Blue yonder, pine-green ponderosas, patches
Of old snow, stretches of empty, buff sandstone
Bluff. Yesterday was the first day; today is the Fool’s Day.
I’ll wait for you to return before sunset, in case. You’ll wander
Back in, runny noses, empty water bottles, and cold skin.
You’ll wonder why I’m still perched here, what kind of fool I am.
While you’re gone, a bushy-haired old German man appears,
Peering over the edge after you. A passerine shrieks. Wind.
The seasonal stream of snowmelt braids dreams. We all tried
To save you today, but it seems like only yesterday, it seems.
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