There must be a way to encode words so that sense may sieves through all the sounds
and send you swimming in it, motionless for distance denies embrace
and makes it an inner feeling, like a kite flying in the high air.
If not for the tail, I would not notice that you are looking down from there
at those who, among banners, balloons and confetti, cluster forward
like hyacinth floating to the hall of the Great Temple.
Zigzagging corridors connecting pavilions, travelers stringing up entrances and exits,
who among them may look up through the barred gate in the wall
at the clouds that drift over the black tiles and white ridge
but are stuck by a few foxtails? On the bridge
at the throat to the most haunted spots, postures are arranged for lens,
while the only possibility capable of appeasing my imagination
hides in an ordinary back lane—
In the most desolate afternoon, I browse a teahouse book
over a jug of green tea accompanied by a saucer of salty green beans
(there is no service charge at this time before the popular Happy Hour)
as if keeping the opposite seat for you
and I was told your train is scheduled to arrive late at night
I do not dream that you’ve decided to come one day earlier than me
so at times when I look up
I am only admiring the rise and fall of the blooming tealeaves
It happens that you have half a day free to loiter away, the perfect time
to be obsessed by a chrysanthemum and feel its body heat in the March sun
in the southern riverside town where you unbutton your overcoat
and allocate your weight to the tripod of two butts and an elbow on the deck.
A supine figure against light into the cabin faces the absent me,
a gold-lined silhouette holding a mass of darkness in its bosom.
Oars stitch together two expanses of water-like languages,
one being noisy silence which flows through you,
and the other being silent noise which you flows on,
while I think of the fragilest sentence from a demonic poet
"You should have a softer pillow than my heart."
At this moment the boat is cleaving through a bridge,
everything is heaving, and I bear in heart a gladness like a poem like you.
Feb. 18, 2009
以诗邀友神游江南
我私自想能用什么编码使言外之意
从词语的噪音中渗出，抵达你
你游于其中，不动声色（太遥远了，
拥抱只能心领）像风筝，要不是有尾巴
我也不会注意到你将自己放到半空中俯瞰
他们，在横幅、气球、彩幡之下，簇拥
水葫芦一样涌向庙堂的大殿
游廊连接着亭子，游人串起进口出口
有谁会望见围墙的侧门外
云，飘在青瓦白脊之上
被几株狗尾巴草羁绊
而闹市咽喉上的桥头摆满了姿势
一个只符合想象的可能隐藏在后街某个寻常小巷
最门前冷落的午后，我叫了一壶雨前茶
就着青豆，翻一本闲书
（呵呵，即使在诗中也只是最低消费）
犹如虚席以待深夜才到来的你
而你却早已决定要先我一天到达
你当然不知
我的茶壶中已经有沉浮、绽开的意象
你想着这半日无聊，恰好用来温习
野菊花侧身抹着阳光的风骚
在江南的三月，你将外套与体重解开，匀称地
分配给两瓣屁股和一只手肘
船舱口，你斜倚着，逆光，面向并不在场的我
你的轮廓披金，胸前一片幽暗
欸乃声声，犹如针脚缝合着两幅语言
一幅是沉默的喧闹，它流经你
一幅是喧闹的沉默，你流经它
而我想到一个恶魔诗人最脆弱的句子
“你应该有一个比我的心更柔软的枕头”
此刻，小船正穿过桥洞，一切都微微起伏
我按捺着欣喜，就像按着这些诗句和你
2009年2月18日
按：恶魔诗人指拜伦，这句话出自他给妻子的一封信：You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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