Inviting a Friend to a Mental Cruise at a Riverside Town
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
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.