Plans

I exist to tear down the scaffolding
I erected yesterday,
and to work on something else.
I have no respect
for the me of then, whom sleep has killed;
when I was born this morning,
I forgot who he was,
and I knew only
I had better get busy with the day
before o, I am slain, too.
Then, by the end,
I am so rapt in it all,
so thoroughly saturated
with all my perturbations,
I forget: planning
and framing, calculating
and projecting all I will need do: that
tomorrow, I awake
and see how much the fool I was
to dream my florid dreams,
and I will dream of else, dream otherwise:
for when I am that fool,
it all seems so vigorously important,
what I dare conceive,
and I cannot imagine
tomorrow comes like a stranger,
with no memory
of how all of it mattered so,
no desire to see
what might have been, only if, only if.