I can be sillier than you can, nyah-nyah

This sonnet is Shakespearean enough.
Five iambs set in each of fourteen lines,
Three quatrains and a couplet -- that's the stuff.
We follow form, and polish till it shines.

But do I have a subject? Do I care?
My words reflect each other in the dark.
The fun-house fills, as their collective stare
forms fractal mirrors in the empty park.

"The structure properly includes itself,"
as Cantor showed, defines infinity.
Self-referential paradox; the shelf
within the book, includes divinity.

And once we put infinity in verse,
Why, Shakespeare's there. For better or for worse.