On the Relative Insignificance of All Forms of Information

Sense what you sense, do what you
Do: that's you. Maybe there are
Other worlds, and certainly
There are potent hints of them
In the aspects of your world
That insist they are themselves,
Including that part that calls

Itself yourself, and that which
Calls itself myself, but
These parts are no less compact
With you for all that. The tree
Over there, the truck parked here,
The day and the age, beauty,
Conflict, and accomplishment,

Whatever it is, is you
Being you, no matter how
Badly you want to keep one
Corner of your world your own,
Your self, belonging to self
Alone and orthogonal
To the rest you fear and crave.