Time
does not behave
now as it used to,
or perhaps, just maybe
from such slowing down
its behaviour
is more noticeable.
Bound in places,
held in spaces
what happens
to spacetime,
when space contracts,
time constricts?
Seeing no one,
unless observed remotely,
from windows walking past,
or in virtual space
in real time –
What then is real?
What is time?
What is space?
Or
Where is real?
Where is time?
Where is space?
What have we become?
Who are we becoming?
Going nowhere beyond the shop,
necessities seem more necessary,
for they are the reason
to leave one’s space for a time,
venturing to other places
masked and distanced.
Unable to trust anyone,
who knows when or whether
a stranger or a friend
carries the contagion,
making us wary
as in every moment life’s time
for each individual
crawls and scurries onward.
What is lost of time’s trajectory,
no less precious for its ephemerality,
no less regretted for what feels like
its wasting,
differently experienced now
slipping past day on day,
hour by moment
for a nearly a year gone forever?
Shards, scraps, shreds
of time tumble
in free fall as
autumn’s leaves
landing silent and mostly unremarked
forming mulch for memories.
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Gray Bear in the Middle 
The last stanza is exceedingly beautiful. And actually gives me hope, for mulch adds richness to the soil, though it be sometimes smelly or coarse. Mulch returns to its source at some point, once it is tilled into the fertile earth, indeed making that earth fertile, which is sustenance for the trees and plants, that reach for the sun ever to wilt and settle back to the earth as mulch. So, if the fractions of time and space are also mulch, it is not wasted, but part of the Cycle.
Thank you. Oddly, the last stanza is where the poem began.