No one will see. The words from those at windows are ink-stains
Dissolving into the night.
They stand to hold themselves, to fly with the wings of hope and pains.
By the cliff of the night, they look down, up or away into the distance,
Or merely at the windowsill, and a firmness takes root in them.
This triggers my mind.
When standing still, it is a painting;
When in motion, it is a tableau.
Reveries, meditations, fantasies, nostalgia, visions, illusions…
Every word can turn on my heart.
There is too much noisy brightness in this world, and even in the wintertime
It is a rare chance to see a star-studded sky.
The blinking warm lights have long been grafted onto human bodies
So as to ogle in the artificial darkness,
Or maybe they are wrapped in black velvet, encased,
Like eyes that are shielded with reflective film, eyes of freshly dead fish.
The moon is still, full of white and water,
And loaded with the poverty of half the world.
Its roundedness is a medium, a well
That ferments the most beautiful pretense:
Tonight, it is cold, so you have to love me,
And keep my company but keep an arm’s distance.
I cannot stand a human hug.
If it is dark and moonless and windy outside your window, then pull close
All the curtains and roll over on the bed;
Something has to be sealed to be fermented, like the moods sutured in a body.
I have been with you when you are so curled up, heavy with yourself,
But my hands cannot scoop away your loneliness.
When you wake up, you may search for words between the lines,
Feeling the laconic warmth of my melancholy that is meant
To deliver you from the pre-dawn desolation to the mid-morning sunlight.
Only children still love to press faces against the windowpane, looking at
Winds waving silently on the treetops that canopy the yard wall,
And every dog marks its territory with pisses over there.
Children blow breaths on the glass, and look at the outside through the blurring,
And then their fingers coo and coo like pigeons,
When a line sketch of a smiling face makes the flat world
Rise and fall as a country landscape.
So they keep on breathing to the face until it is blurred again,
And then they track the lines once more to keep the laugh.
They breathe and track, over and over, until they grow tired of their fiddle,
And as everything becomes so transiently unreal,
They cut out a paper face, glue it against the glass.
Unflattened as it is, the wax-paper face keeps faithful watch over their sleep and dreams,
Even keep wake for the empty room,
Till it is aged and faded by the sunlight,
Till they forget that they cut it because they wanted to keep their own breath.
People can only stand for a while,
Going away is pre-destined.
There is no lack of sound to easily carry away even the most determined one,
Or, soundless sleep may prevail, not by its inner power but by borrowed power
Of weariness that rises from the dull wall-base and cold feet.
Insidiousness is an injection of anesthetic, and once done, the life is left
Alone, like the leaves of a window hinged to the frame
Whose agitated thrashing only solidifies their unbreakable relation.
The hinge grips their strength, sucks their life, and they may
Do sit-ups or push-ups, but could never take a free walk.
Where there is a wall, there is at least a window.
A window is a transcendental existence, inherent to a wall,
Even prior to the door.
A window is God’s last remedy for a dead exit,
For the last jump of life.
One may debar the cries outside the door but can never play deaf
To the call that seeps in through the window.
A fleeting shadow across there will snatch the soul
From the spread-eagle body of the once vertical one by window.
Black cats squad on the windowsill,
Half-closed eyes shiny like stars, and reveal
There are incarcerated spirits behind the holes on the wall.
Through the lens of scientific instruments, their body heat
Always lingers there, taking the form of human bodies,
Never dissolved. It is a thermo thing,
Which I have never figured out.
Only danger-inducing possibility incites mortal interest.
(A secluded little woman wrote from her garden—
You think my gait ‘spasmodic’ -- I’m in danger, sir—
She said she was a load gun, but I know
No one had really put his finger at the trigger, or the gun
Did not have a trigger at all.)
They are encased in glass and concrete, so
I have been circling around like a phantom outside night after night,
And not a hair is impaired or grayed.
How safe I am!
I have never planned or been hired to kill them.
Bullets, arrows, staggers or matches can touch them
For only once, and it can never last longer than a breath.
In my imaginary gaze, I can see their hands holding their upper-arms
For warmth, and I see myself as a tiny snake
On a laurel branch, wriggling like fear,
For a never fulfilled rape.
I try to persuade myself that even voyeurism is not a sin
Or shame. Any individual who is intent on an act
Exhibits to a world of unconsciousness
And performs for the world in dark.
To be a hidden audience, to commune with the incidental performer
In a way unregistered in the world of physics;
This is a supreme art, like the mind-mind exchange between the blind.
(The performaniacs don’t stand by window;
They see even in rainy days stars peeping and their mouths watering,
So they turn their daily routine into stripteases.
They pull open and close windows, roll up and let loose curtains,
And flick on and off the switch. In the end,
They will scatter confetti on their naked bodies.
—Oh, these lines should be deleted.)
Night flows into rooms without anyone’s notice,
Seeping into those standing at window, and through their words
I am saturated with night and made flesh.
Their breathing tickles my nerves, and my body is taken by spasms;
To read them, I have to hide behind curtains
From the blaze of the sun.
Like a garden eel into liquid and sand,
The rear half sucked by sand, the upper half dangling in the undercurrent.
Jan. 21-30, 2009
按：“你认为我的步态是‘痉挛式的’—我居于危险，先生” (You think my gait ‘spasmodic’ -- I’m in danger, sir) 摘自艾米莉·狄金森给希金森的信。“装了火药的枪”出自狄金森的一首诗：My Life had stood—a loaded gun--/ In Corners—till a Day/ The Owner passed—identified—/ And carried Me away—// (我的人生伫立--装了火药的枪--/ 在墙角--直到一天/ 主人路过--认出来--/ 将我带走)