Settling In

The year is always settling in:
nothing but itself is interesting to it.
Concatenating quantum bit to quantum bit,
catapulting constantly into becoming:
always here, and simultaneously

clearly, queerly, cleanly gone,
it masquerades complacently
as the foregone: self-evidently
brightly leafed or snowed upon:
implicitly, hilariously, ominously normal.

Formal aspects of its pat existence
are as gloriously fine, replete, complete
as anything that throws a shadow
in old Plato’s cave can be.
I wonder what it has to do with me.

.