We Are Tourists

The peacock blue sky without eyes
Fans its feathers over drab rocks.
One variant of the many
Worlds hypothesis holds our world

Is likely a simulation,
Given that, if any one world
Perfected the technology
And art of pretense well enough,

Simulators would get busy
On so many simulations
Of worlds that any given world
Would be statistically likely

To be an artificial one.
Plus, there's the mysterious point
That mathematics fits this world
A little suspiciously well.

Digitized acoustic music
And digital music alike
Unscroll smoothly with faint birdsong
And the whispering of breezes

In my ears, rowing into me
Or into what I think is me
From over that open blue sky,
Being simultaneously

Distinct, indistinguishable.
It's getting late. The moon will rise
Soon to the music of the spheres.
Time for me to be getting home.

But first, what I would like to know
Is how can we use this world's math
To ascertain the likelihood
That this world's mathematically

Unlikely to be and likely
To be unreal, mathematics
Seeming to work too perfectly?
If we are in a universe

That's itself a simulation,
Just as our brains simulate it,
By God, what's it simulating?
Who or what within this are we?