Time between years, when nothing real happens.
Feelings. Events. Experience.
All as true as ever.
But the shape of what is moults.
The skeleton of reality dissolves to constituent
Suffering and joy remain real; it is the walls
On which to measure them, to do anything about
That revert to primordial energy field,
Only later, when Time restarts a year
(If it does, if we and the Universe still exist)
To do anything, to create a next matrix,
For suffering and joy and action to stand on.
But what if the quarks spin so thick
Time without form. A lifetime lives through
It does not matter when years begin and end.
But maybe it matters if we know it, if we know
That everything we know and are is real as
Experience itself is real, but is also so much
Quark dust on the winds of a formless condition
Where even Time itself may or may not be.
That we all forget, amid frenzy of buying and
And fury and need and theological war over
What date any new year begins?
It does not matter. It is not the quarks
Of our experience that melt, but the world's
Floor on which for them to stand.
The more the fact of Change surprises,
- Uncle River
The more profound the Change...perhaps.