Miss You in the Cold Autumn
As the night deepens,
The seasons in one day have turned to autumn.
The marrow-level tilts like a seesaw, one end
Down to the ground, the other pointing to somewhere mid-air.
The Milky Way lies bare;
You lie below.
On which layer of the darkness
Will a body of boneless warmth float?
A thousand foggy hands of night wrap and lap
With pale tongues of fire, cocooning the tender one,
Billowing inside itself—
But how can this tense silk hold itself up to fingertip and warmth?
The inn of time is neat as a crypt, and this is
Another city, a magic carpet that takes you for one night’s flight;
You, sleepless on a new bed, resign yourself to the distant clouds,
Unable to set loose a dove.
Counting the green-eyed lambs; searching for a particular one,
You turn and twist or lie in a crucified posture in the hammock of a love song.
Imagination, however tenacious, cannot spring forth a lotus flower
From the mud; poetry is nothing but refined feculence.
If this poem can bend and fold up the space—
Like two photos brought together to touch foreheads—
It must be for the suffocating attraction
Between the ends of distance; words alone cannot make it.
Breath keeps breathing creatures apart, and desire is fermented
In their respective memory; love without rubbing
Has nothing but waiting and aging as the pigments appear.
We speak but not know who is listening,
We have bodies and they are alive; we smell of ourselves,
And we see phantoms of flowers in the dark.
Nov. 13-17, 2010
(Thank you, George)
冷秋之念
一天的四季，至此，夜已入秋，
骨头的水平仪
倾斜，这条跷跷板一端下沉，另一端
伸向稀薄的远方。
银河依旧，横陈于天；
你，在下面。
那一团温软会在哪一层幽暗上漂浮？
夜的如烟的
千只手，缠绕，以苍白的火苗；
一个蚕茧的空间，自己
在体内涌动，
这欲裂之帛该如何承受指尖和温度？
时间的旅店，墓穴似的整洁，这是
另一座城，你栖宿的飞毯，一夜的航行；
认床的人，渴望远方，泛滥着，放不出鸽子。
云朵后，绿眼睛的羊时隐时现，
你要找到一只，同眠
在一首情诗的吊床上，蜻蜓点水。
再坚韧的想象力
也不能将一支荷花从污泥中撺出，
诗，只是提炼了的云气。
假若有一首能将空间弯曲、折叠，如两张照片
吸在一起，拥吻，那是因为
距离太浓稠，言语不能独自承受。
呼吸，将人分开，在各自的记忆中
发酵欲望，而爱没有了
厮磨，色素从毛发中沉积成老年斑。
我们说，而不知谁会听见，
我们有可触的肉体，我们嗅闻自己，
想象着黑夜中的花。
2010年11月13-17日
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