No Word For Time

Do as you please, but today we mustn’t look for time,
or for the birds to join cages we may have made,
or for what I want to forget top the parapet at sunset—
Are you tired of being a woman yet?

I’m tired of being of man.
Shaving, clipping away at a wiry, peppery sand.
Suspected—the older I become, if I flash a girl a grin.
The worst thing—when people rob me of my usefulness.

With no words for time, except the lack of molars in my mouth,
with no words to pass the hours, except I want you to want me again,
is it a crime to be so tired I barely know how to make a move?

The lie of afternoon winds blew fattened grasses into a creek
below my feet, and I’ve spent the last two years trying to score
with you.  No doubt a lifetime wondering what the hell for.