酷我-北美枫

[星子]

"Follow me," the voice, the long, longed-for voice stops

the writing hand. "I have your shoes." Except

for a rotating fan, movement at a minimum. The plan,

if one can call it a plan, is to begin in what is known

to some as the perennial present; beginning

with a few sentences written in a kitchen while others

cling to their own images in twisted sheets of heat.

A napkin floats from a counter in lieu of a letter. Portals

of the back life part in silence: O verge

of song, O big eyelets of daylight. Leaving milk and bowl

on the table, leaving the house discalced. All this

mystery, mildly erotic. Even if one is terrified

of both death and the color red. Even if a message is sent

each of us in secrecy, no one can make it stay.

Notwithstanding scale—everything has its meaning,

every thing matters; no one a means every one an end



" 随我来" ，声音传来，

悠长而热切；

让书写的手停了下来。

" 我带上了你的鞋。"

除了旋转的风扇，

没有任何移动物体。

这样的计划，如果能唤作计划的话，

是一些在别人看来习以为常的事务，

从厨房写下的几行话开始，而别人还留连

在他们自己床单余热的想象。

一片餐巾纸飘离台面，取代了一封信。

过往生活的入口无声地分离：

哦，那些歌的尽头，阳光空洞的眼。

桌上还留着牛奶和碗，就这样赤着脚离开房子。

这一切的神秘，弥漫着一丝暧昧。

即使一个人惧怕死和红色 ,

即使消息秘密地发送于我们，没有人能让它留下来。

尽管衡量，任何事都有它的意义，

事事都有关联；

没有人只是一个过客，每个人都是一个结局

在我们独自的期限里。

[[ANNA]]

"Follow me," the voice, the long, longed-for voice stops

the writing hand. "I have your shoes." Except

for a rotating fan, movement at a minimum. The plan,

if one can call it a plan, is to begin in what is known

to some as the perennial present; beginning

with a few sentences written in a kitchen while others

cling to their own images in twisted sheets of heat.

A napkin floats from a counter in lieu of a letter. Portals

of the back life part in silence: O verge

of song, O big eyelets of daylight. Leaving milk and bowl

on the table, leaving the house discalced. All this

mystery, mildly erotic. Even if one is terrified

of both death and the color red. Even if a message is sent

each of us in secrecy, no one can make it stay.

Notwithstanding scale—everything has its meaning,

every thing matters; no one a means every one an end



" 随我来" ，声音传来，

悠长而热切；

让书写的手停了下来。

" 我带上了你的鞋。"

除了旋转的风扇，

没有任何移动物体。

这样的计划，如果能唤作计划的话，

是一些在别人看来习以为常的事务，

从厨房写下的几行话开始，而别人还留连

在他们自己床单余热的想象。

一片餐巾纸飘离台面，取代了一封信。

过往生活的入口无声地分离：

哦，那些歌的尽头，阳光空洞的眼。

桌上还留着牛奶和碗，就这样赤着脚离开房子。

这一切的神秘，弥漫着一丝暧昧。

即使一个人惧怕死和红色 ,

即使消息秘密地发送于我们，没有人能让它留下来。

尽管衡量，任何事都有它的意义，

事事都有关联；

没有人只是一个过客，每个人都是一个结局

在我们独自的期限里。