While waiting for the heat-death of the universe

While waiting for the heat-death of the universe
I lose whole nights of sleep,

performing graceless gymnastics
in the dark,

morphing in half-dreams
from a bent stalk of bamboo

to a wounded boa,
from a damp towel

to a portion of broken necklace
lying in the dirt,

pointing as if by accident
toward a lost city.

My body seems a gesture of something else.
I am trying to be patient

for whatever it is
to arrive.
.

While waiting for the heat-death of the universe
I grow delirious.

It simply takes too long,
what becomes incomprehensible

becomes meaningless as well.

I visualize horses running
across a field of tall grass.

Before they reach the tree-line
they all fall,

as if into a large hole.
Are they my sins piling up,

or being forgiven,
or what?

Why am I so fixated on them being
my sins,

anyway?

.

While waiting for the heat-death of the universe
I water the plants.  My garden is growing,

almost without me. I eat the tomatoes
and touch the petals of rare flowers

so I might not be left out,
but it is mostly illusion.

.

While waiting for the heat-death of the universe
I become happy.

The things that I am afraid of won't last
and the things that I love are here for now.

The light falls on them
with relish.

The languages I have learned hold each other’s hands
and buy each other food

from vendors at the edges of parks.

They kiss each other gently,
having summoned the courage after hundreds of years.

But I don't have hundreds of years.

.

While waiting for the heat-death of the universe
I start writing letters to it,

capitalizing Universe,
imploring Madam or Sir

to please hurry
and get it over with,

too many awful things
are unfolding for it to tarry.

The universe marks them all
"Return to sender."

After only a few days!

Is the universe so close
as to respond?

Do I have only to walk down
the road?

.

In some other universe
while waiting for that one's heat-death

who I am places a stool by my bed.
I stack books onto it

once I'm finished with them.
Sometimes I glance at them ruefully.

If only I could be finished with more
than just fiction, non-fiction.

.

While waiting for the heat-death of the universe
I start weeping.

There is so much displaced between one hour
and the next,

the earth moves through empty space
so swiftly

and there is no going back.
What can anyone do?

To feel better
I wallpaper the inside of my skull

with fragrance ads from magazines,

I plaster my love for mountains
over my arms and throat

and I undo the harm of horrors
rather than the horrors themselves

by turning the lamp back on
in my heart.

.

While waiting for you-know-what

I try to calm myself
by sensing

the movements of tall grass,

by measuring
the ratio of absence to sighting

as I wonder vaguely where
all the birds have gone.

Do you know what I mean
when I put opened

in italics?

That nanosecond of
being what we ought to have been all along?

I don't know how.
But

somehow
I stop waiting.