Wasting Time

is a misuse of words, because time
is not wasted. Like space, there is
far too much of it, actually. They say
it will ripple, or bend beautifully,
like a thin, cold sheet of metal.
But I am so far from that place, where
the rippling and the bending occur,
where the mysteries have yet to
trade away their immortal shapes.
I am in a summer, in a city, in a bed-
room, about to kick off my shoes and
make love with a stranger. I am where
the wind puts out candles, can move
a curtain like a ghost, like a bell.