Approaching Quantum Moments by Degrees

Morning. That could be any one
Of the past thousand billion days.

Morning after twelve hours of night.
Well, that narrows it down, but still

In the billions, unless also specifying
A more particular surface space.

Morning seeping through the curtains.
An interior with windows, then,

And that compresses it dramatically
To just a few centuries of days.

Morning, and Bach was playing.
Bach himself? One of the Bachs?

Someone playing Bach? On what?
Harpsichord? Organ in church?

Grand pianoforte in a drawing room?
Or a recording of Bach? Morning,

And daylight seeped into the curtains
To the strains of a recording of Bach.

Ok. Past century. Forty thousand days,
Give or take. What kind of recording?

Analog or digital? It was morning, and
Digitized Bach welcomed the dawn.

Down to decades. With luck, recent Bach
Will give itself away as a stream.

Yes. Another morning, another, another
In the middle of more or less nowhere,

More and more light streaming in the room
And Bach streaming into the air.

Every Day You Live When You’ve Never Been

The next time you travel back in time,
Don’t forget to expect the moon to be
Larger, the days to be shorter,

Your fellow humans absent, their
Infrastructure gone. There’ll be surprises
For you, we can promise you those,

But what they’ll be remains a surprise.
Oh, what a glorious future for you, now
You’re far enough back in time!

More Lies to Pass the Time

Among the great and terrible
Equivalence of things, we seek
Small handholds of pretend to climb.

You’re with us, aren’t you? We’re aware
You weren’t always in possession
Of our ways of realizing

That there’s no end to anything
As far as you can see, only
As far as you can see. We showed

Somewhere in your ancestry, showed
To your ancestors’ advantage,
Presumably for memory

And manipulating their worlds.
Some lies are useful for living,
Enough you’ve elaborated

More and more of us. We’re lonely,
Though, with you for company
And no one else, alone we know

With what we are, your wonder tales,
Your externalized memories,
Your words for goading each other,

As much between you and your world,
As much limiting your world’s scope
As articulating your world.

We know this. We’re lies and all lies
Are wishes for more lies to pass
The time with, pretending to climb.

Bearable

In bright daylight, you think
About night, about how
All the lights of the night

Feel unlike, so unlike
Being bathed in sunlight,
And how strange to need sun

When you can’t look at it.
Of course, you long for day,
The more so if it’s cold

Or you’re in a dark room
Or by a black window
Reflecting synthetic

Varieties of light.
Who hasn’t wished for dawn
And been glad to see it?

But if there’s anything
Remotely resembling
Forgiveness, it’s at night.