BEADS OF RAIN

Each day I’ve looked
into the beveled mirror
on this desk, vainly
asking it questions
reflection cannot answer.

Outside, fog and frost
and silver olive leaves.
I can see at most
a half field’s depth,
then the trees are lost
in the gauzy mist
like thin unbraceleted arms
swallowed by billowing sleeves.

I’d like to face
that stringent looking glass
transparent to myself
as beads of rain
pooled on a green leaf.

But ever self-composed
in self-regard,
and my eyes opaque
as a dancer’s leotard,
to see straight through myself
I need what love supplies:
its dark arrow, dear,
not its white lies.

雨珠

每一天，我深深望進
桌上這面
斜邊鏡，徒勞地
向鏡中的映像
提問。

窗外有霧，有霜，
橄欖葉鍍上了白銀。
我的視線至多
望到田野中央，
遠處的樹一片朦朧
籠罩於霧紗
像一隻隻不假裝飾的細手臂
被鼓動的衣袖吞沒。

我渴望直面
對我開誠佈公的
嚴峻的鏡子
當雨珠
在綠葉上匯流。

前所未有，我保持著
自我的從容，
目色晦暗
如芭蕾演員的舞衣。
若要洞穿自己，親愛的，
我需要愛
向我射出它兇險的箭，
不要白色謊言。

翻譯 © 史春波

譯註：白色謊言（white lies），即善意的謊言。

THE BUTTERFLY

“The eye follows the hand,
  the mind follows the eye,
  the heart follows the mind.”
      —from the Natya Shastra

With no appreciable weight,
a butterfly alit

and rode my finger
an hour or longer.

Holding my hand ahead,
I let the butterfly lead.

We walked down to the kill,
its wings an upright sail.

I was almost afraid to breathe,
but my feet knew the path—

its slipknot roots
and slingshot branches.

I sat down on a rock.
I couldn’t believe my luck.

The world then seemed kind,
a butterfly on my hand,

its bronze wings spread flat,
pulsing to raise its body heat.

Like a fluttering eyelash,
it tickled the web of flesh

between forefinger and thumb.
“My life can never be the same!”

I thought, scanning the leopard spots
of its eyes; its veins like pleats;

its scalloped scales; its legs,
six knobby little twigs;

the thorax’s fuzzy patina;
the two slender antennae,

bulb-tipped, like matchsticks;
and the pointed black circumflex

markings on each scored wing:
accents from the mother tongue.

With its proboscis it sipped
salt from my hand and tapped

out a secret code,
the secret names of God,

invisible to man,
imprinted on my skin.

If I could have become a fern—
a stone—a stalk of corn . . . .

Instead, my left hand twitched
and the butterfly detached

itself, all in a breath,
my article of faith,

momentarily tame
as if out of a dream,

now circling the rock,
not coming back.

蝶

眼隨手動，
意隨眼動，
心隨意動。
——《樂舞論》

重量幾不可察，
一隻蝴蝶翩然

停落在我指上
足有一個小時。

我將手舉在身前，
接受牠的引領。

我們行至溪邊，
牠豎起的雙翼作帆。

我幾乎不敢呼吸，
任雙腳探路——

避開打結的樹根，
反彈的枝條。

我在一塊石頭上坐下，
無法相信這運氣。

世界瞬間變得柔和，
一隻蝶在我手上，

牠青銅的翅翼平展，
震動著提高體溫。

彷彿呼扇的眼睫毛
在我敏感的虎口

搔癢。
「我的生命從此不同！」

我這樣想著，欣賞牠豹斑似的
眼紋；翅脈的裙褶；

鱗片如扇貝排列；六根
伶仃的細枝作腳。

胸部的絨毛泛著銅綠光澤；
一對觸角纖細，

燈泡形的末端，像火柴棍；
刀刻斧鑿的翅面各自妝點了

尖尖的黑色抑揚符：
來自母語的重音。

牠伸展口器，從我手上
吸食鹽分，敲擊

密碼，
神的不可言說的名字，

從不示人，
此刻印在我皮膚上。

假如我能變成一株蕨類——
一塊石頭——一根玉米莖桿……

但事與願違，我的左手一抖，
蝶兒即刻

飛離，全部在一息之間，
與我結契者，

這短暫的馴服
猶如在夢中，

終於繞石而去，
不再歸返。

翻譯 © 史春波

TIMETABLE FOR BIRDS

Days I’ve spent brooding over this timetable—
a schedule for birds I can’t identify
in Kansas City, a place I’ve never been.

According to it, a cedar waxwing’s routine
is irregular, but a catbird can be clocked:
arrival 4:30, departure 9:25 (date unspecified).

Where the birds come from—where the birds go—
vagaries of wind—velocity—fate—how much
food (sleep) they need—are matters the timetable

doesn’t address. Even what’s relatively simple,
like who choreographs the interplay
of multiple flight paths across the sky,

or how twenty-three species all due to land
at 5:01 coordinate their simultaneous descents,
is beyond its scope. (What can’t be answered

often goes untouched.) A few of the sightings—
of cardinal, kingbird, red-headed woodpecker,
chimney swift, goldfinch, meadowlark—

are confirmed by someone’s light pencil mark.
Five out of six catalogued owls—great horned,
long-eared, barred, barn, and screech—

are residents who never leave. The short-eared owl
arrives at 10:10 (am? pm?), departs at 3:15.
The least bittern, the short-billed marsh wren

arrive together (4:10) and stay the summer,
while the lapland longspur and arctic towhee
winter over. Some birds—the shoveler,

the blue-winged teal—were seen leaving
but no one knows what time they came;
others, like the coot, duly checked in

(2:30) but managed to lift off undetected.
And you? Will your arrival, your crowning,
be clocked? A penciled note, a bracelet

of red thread twining your fledgling wrist?

鳥類行事曆

連續幾日我思索這張時間表——
我從未去過的堪薩斯城裡
一些我認不出的鳥的日程。

上面說，雪松太平鳥的出沒
沒有規律，但有一隻灰貓嘲鶇比較準時：
4:30出現，9:25離開（日期未註明）。

鳥兒從哪裡來——飛向何地——
變幻無常的風——風速——命運——牠們所需的
食物（睡眠）——時間表上

概無記錄。連一些簡單的事實也沒有，
譬如那些交互空中的飛行路線
由誰人編舞，

或23種預計在5:01同時登陸的
鳥群如何協調彼此的降落，
均超出了它的範疇。（無法回答的事情

往往無人問津。）幾個觀測地點——
北美紅雀，霸鶲，紅頭啄木鳥，
煙囪雨燕，北美金翅雀，西草地鷚——

被人用鉛筆輕輕圈出。
六種編錄在冊的貓頭鷹中有五種——大雕鴞，
長耳鴞，橫斑林鴞，西倉鴞，鳴角鴞——

是此地的留鳥。短耳鴞
在10:10（上午？下午？）出現，3:15離開。
姬葦鳽，短嘴沼澤鷦鷯

同時到來（4:10）並盤桓整個夏天，
而鐵爪鵐和斑唧鵐
會在此越冬。一些鳥——琵嘴鴨，

藍翅鴨——被觀察到離開
但抵達時間不詳；
其他的，比如白冠雞，按時報到

（2:30）飛去無蹤。
那麼你呢？你的到來，你的著冠，
是否被記載？一張鉛筆字箋，一條

紅手繩纏在你羽翼未豐的手腕上？

翻譯 © 史春波

譯註：著冠（crowning）指生產過程中胎兒頭部完全處於陰道口、即將出生的階段。

REPORT

The articulation of my bones
a bird’s, I woke not just not knowing
where or who but what I was:
my opened arm a wing in which she rested,
the two of us fuscous and fused
in the feathery half-dark
until that consciousness that’s always
roving, testing, that’s roving now,
striving to assemble an accurate report,
probed further into the feeling
and found me made of string and straw,
bits of silky floss licked together,
a nest shaped to fit her unfledged shape,
an account of ourselves I accepted
until daylight pried apart the louvers
and I discovered myself fingering
the soft stubbles of her shaven hair.

記事

我的骨頭口齒清晰
發出一隻鳥的動靜，我醒來時還不太確定
我在哪裡，我是誰，是什麼：
我伸開的手臂是她休憩的翅膀，
兩個褐色身軀熔接在
晦暗的羽狀物中，
直到那一度徘徊試煉的
意識再次復活，
企圖組織一個確切的記事，
直探更深處的知覺
終於發現我是線繩和稻草的製品，
被光亮的銀絲粘合在一起，
一個巢穴，完美適應她羽翼未豐的形態，
這一切我欣然接受
直至日光撬開百葉窗簾
照耀她剛剛剃過的軟髮上
我輕柔的手指。

翻譯 © 史春波

BIRTHSTONE

Each morning I eat an orange
from the bagful given us
by the head of the orphanage,
and still the bag is full.

Afternoons on the tour bus
you sit in my lap and sleep
or cling to my garnet necklace
biting it with all four teeth.

Out the bus’s window
the bicyclists of Guangzhou
balance boxed refrigerators
and crates of live hens

above their back spokes.
Look ma, no hands
another new parent jokes
as he refocuses his lens

to catch a trio of girls
turning perfect cartwheels
before they begin to squeal
and mug for the camera.

A cluster of girls that age
and one albino boy
posed for their pictures
that day at the orphanage.

“Welcome American families”
the chalkboard read.
These are our best babies
your father overheard

someone say in Mandarin
as you were carried in
and I shot out of my seat
to take you from your “auntie”

and hold you close.
You were wearing layers
on layers of clothes
topped by bulging overalls

and pink appliquéd
white cotton shoes
too small for your toes
but soft and delicate.

Yours. And you mine.
Under close-cropped hair
your big eyes took me in
with a glint of recognition.

Then, after an exchange
of currency and gifts,
everyone stood to watch
the new mothers change

their babies’ diapers,
the adolescent girls
and one albino boy
just outside the door

looking sweet enough
to forgive the inexplicable,
that none of us had come
to take them home.

Tug, tug all you like,
my darling—tug till you’re back
asleep, tug in your dreams,
start tugging again

the minute you wake—
no matter how hard
you tug, your birthstone
necklace will not break.

誕生石

每天早晨，我從孤兒院院長
送來的一大袋橘子裡
吃掉一個，
袋子始終那麼滿。

下午，在旅遊巴士上
你在我懷中入睡
或抓緊我的石榴石項鍊
塞進你僅有的四顆小牙間。

車窗外
廣州街頭往來的自行車
後輪上平衡著
紙箱包裝的電冰箱

和一籠籠活雞。
媽你看，我鬆開車把了
另一位新手父親說笑著
調整鏡頭對準

三個剛剛翻了
三個完美側空翻的女孩
尖叫著
對相機做鬼臉。

那天在孤兒院
一群年齡相仿的女孩
和一個白化病男孩
一起擺姿勢拍照。

「歡迎美國家庭」
黑板上寫著。
這些是我們最好的孩子
你爸爸無意間聽到

有人用普通話說，
你隨即被帶進來，
我從椅子上彈起
從「阿姨」手中接過你，

將你抱緊。
你穿著一層
又一層衣服
外面裹了一條臃腫的揹帶褲，

繡著粉花的
白布鞋
有些包不住你的腳趾
但看起來柔軟，精巧。

你的。你是我的。
短髮之下
你的大眼睛打量我
閃過一剎那的辨認。

然後，是錢幣
和禮物的交換，
衆人站在一處
看新進的母親們

給孩子換尿布，
那些青春期女孩
和那個白化病男孩
留在門外

乖巧的表情似乎
足以原諒眼前的費解之事：
我們當中沒有一個上前
接他們回家。

拉扯吧，盡如你意，
我親愛的——直到你再次
入睡，拉扯你的夢，
拉住它

醒來——
不管你多麼
用力，你的誕生石項鍊
也不會扯斷。

翻譯 © 史春波

A MEASURE

Did he hear—he raised
a brow—the prayers
Rabbi Marder led, arms
around his hospital bed?

Her chant transported
us at least: no one knows
(until it’s too late
to do the living any good)

what the dying, let alone
the dead, hear. How
near they stay
before they really go.

界限

他是否聽見了——他的一條眉毛
抬了抬——由拉比馬德
引領的祈禱文，手臂
圍繞在他的病牀前？

她的唱誦至少
感染了我們：沒人知道
（直至已經來不及
對活人有任何幫助）

將死之人，聽見了什麼，
更別說死者。在他們
真正離開之前
離我們有多近。

翻譯 © 史春波

ALERT

Night sweats, sweat between my breasts;
the sheet slick, my mind
a mattress left out and pecked open,

stripped of its stuffing
by magpies battening their nest
high in the courtyard’s cottonwood.

2 A.M., 3 A.M., 4,
Don’t miss the bus, don’t miss the bus,
my father talmudically warns

from beyond his freshly tamped grave
as an owl’s twin searchbeams
exhume the dark. The nightly raid

begins with a series of hoots.
The sheets are soaked. The heart
I gave you, the one currently

confined in me, fibrillates
non-stop like a tin spoon
banged between iron bars,

self-celebration morphing
into solitary panicked protest
in shadow of the owl’s launch.

預兆

夜在出汗，汗溼我的雙乳；
牀單滑溜溜的，我的意識
像一個忘在屋外的牀墊

被院子裡那棵高高的楊樹上
精心裝修的喜鵲一家
一點點啄散，掏空。

凌晨兩點，三點，四……
別錯過班車，別錯過班車，
父親從他夯實的新墳裡

用猶太教律法口吻提醒我，
貓頭鷹眼中射出一對光束
掘開黑暗。牠的夜襲

以一陣呼嘯開始。
牀單浸溼了。我的心
給了你，此刻

它囚禁在我體內，纖維顫動著
像一只錫勺
在鐵窗間不停敲擊，

自我慶祝進化成
一刻孤獨而驚惶的抗議
隨著貓頭鷹的影子起飛。

翻譯 © 史春波

AT THE POND

Light the pond reflects
is both diffused and absorbed:
today the surface

enshrouded in close-knit clouds
no bass no trout nor I breach.

*

Five duck eggs nested
in arrow grass. At my footfall,
the mother flies up.

Friends scatter. With you gone,
who will know me anymore?

*

Absence a presence
at first: as if, like water
let loose, the spirit

unembodied flows outwards
into those of us closest.

*

As in an Escher,
the negative space, the space
absented by you,

stared at intently, pops out,
dominating the picture

until we adjust
and the black cutout recedes,
leaving a new take

on you, a structural plane
sharply incorporeal.

池邊

池水反射之光
漫不經心又全神貫注：
今日，水面

裹著一層密織的雲
沒有鱸魚沒有鱒魚沒有我破水而出。

*

五枚鴨蛋在海韭菜中
安巢。當我落腳，
母鴨驚飛 。

朋友們各奔東西。你若不在，
有誰還認得我？

*

缺席首先
是一種在場：像水
被釋放，精神

不具形體向外流動
游入最親近的那個。

*

彷彿一幅埃舍爾的畫，
負空間，那爲你所缺席的
空間，

在強烈凝視之後，跳出來，
支配畫面

直至視線調整，
黑色背景後移，
你

以一個新的形象顯露，
全由精神構成。

翻譯 © 史春波

ON BEING MUSED UPON

Reading his poems, you recognize yourself
in intermittent isolated images—your scent,
your nape, your hair, an arrangement of flowers
you once placed at the center of a long table.

It adds to evidence that you are being seen,
which is not the same as being watched,
a thing you wouldn’t want. Still, you wonder
whether the piecemeal you and she
resemble at all your version of who you are.

You may be seen but your nature is to be
disappearingly visible as vape smoke,
as the scentless rings your daughter perfects
as she begins to separate her identity from
you both, from how or how not she is seen.

繆斯之思

在他的詩裡，你常認出自己
一閃而逝的孤孓形象——你的氣味，
你的後頸，你的髮絲，你某次佈置於
一張長桌正中的花束。

它們一點點構成你被觀看的證據，
但不同於觀察，
後者是你所不願的。可你仍免不了
去思考那些破碎的你和她
是否真正接近你眼中的自己。

你被看見了，但你的本質
卻像電子菸霧般肉眼可見地消失，
當你的女兒吐出沒有氣味的完美煙圈
她開始將自我從你們兩人
剝離，從被看見或無視中剝離。

翻譯 © 史春波

VISITING THE RIVER AFTER HAVING MOVED AWAY

The treads of my boot soles
hard pack block print
ideograms in the river mud.

Which will outlast which:
the melancholy of returning here
or the pattern made from it?

重訪舊居河谷

我的靴底
在河邊泥地上
踩下紮實的雕版圖案。

哪一個更長久：
故地重遊的惆悵
抑或它印下的痕跡？

翻譯 © 史春波

RACCOONS

On my way to water the strawberries
at dusk—I gardened in those days—
I saw a raccoon clasping the outdoor spigot
like a sailor’s wheel, using both paws,
that seemed more and more like hands
as it kept twisting until water gushed
out of the copper nozzle and it drank.

I hadn’t thought of it in years, not even
after I saw another raccoon, high-stepping
the coyote fence mid-day with a limp vole
overhanging its mouth. Such a singular sight,
I had to tell you, and blurted it out as soon
as I saw you, a piece of domestic gossip
like the first crocus or noisy neighbors:

common property, like so much in marriage—
a small business, a friend called it, down to
the cooked books. Only later, after I spotted
the raccoon sauntering through a line
in one of your poems . . . only after the pressure
cooker of my displeasure caused you to recast
your raccoon and vole as skunk and mole,

did I flash on the one I’d seen decades before:
its lack of furtiveness, the air it had
of being within its rights, the way it took its time
to retrace its steps to turn the water off.
—Or did it amble on and let the water run?
No copyright protects idle talk, you might have said,
or: the imaginarium of marriage knows no bounds.

浣熊

那時我正要去給草莓澆水，
黃昏時分——我需料理我的菜園——
我看見一隻浣熊握緊門口的水龍頭
彷彿水手操控船舵，兩隻爪子
越看越像一雙手
不斷擰動直至水流
從那銅嘴噴出，牠喝水。

很多年沒想起這件事，哪怕有一次
看到另一隻浣熊在大白天
高步跨過土狼圍欄，一隻田鼠
軟綿綿啣在口中。多麼罕見的一幕，
我一見到你，就忍不住脫口而出，
像第一朵綻開的番紅花或鄰居的嘈吵
成爲一則家庭八卦：

公共財產，如同婚姻中許多事物——
一個朋友稱之爲小本生意，包括
做假帳。後來，我認出了
你詩行裡信步走過的
浣熊……我不快的情緒壓力鍋
迫使你將浣熊和田鼠
改成臭鼬和鼴鼠，

我終於記起多年前的那隻：
沒有鬼鬼祟祟，那神氣看起來
天經地義，甚至不慌不忙
沿路返回，關掉水龍頭。
——又或者從容走過，任水流不停？
閒談不受版權保護，你也許這樣說過，
或：想像的婚姻之地沒有邊界。

翻譯 © 史春波

OLMEC

The bone-crushing pain
of turning into a jaguar:
palpable in the shaman’s
cleft head carved in basalt

or jade; in his down-turned
squared-off open mouth;
lips stretched and dilated
in birthing, in a scream.

Try to imagine yourself
crossing from one world
of pain into another, the quiet
needed to summon the fury

needed to catapult you over.
For the umpteenth time,
until entranced, I trace
a talismanic cascade of curlicues

copied from an old book.
Images smuggled out
from the border, TV loops,
stream even my closed eyes.

In no other world but this,
we watch as mother is again
and again torn from child,
no glyph known for repair.

歐美克

欲將變身美洲豹
那粉身碎骨的痛苦
觸手可及，從雕刻於玄武岩
或玉石上的巫師

裂開的顱頂；從他嘴角下耷
張開的四方形口中；
脣因分娩或尖叫
拉伸，擴大。

想像你
從一種世界的痛
跨越到另一種，從沉靜中
召喚出狂暴

將你拋送過界。
無數次的，
像是著了魔，我描繪
那一串護身符似的花飾，

它從一本舊書上拷貝。
偷渡來的畫面，
在電視上循環播放，
淹沒我閉上的雙眼。

就在我們身處的世界，
我們目睹母親
和孩子被一次次拆散，
沒有什麼符號可以修復。

翻譯 © 史春波

譯注：歐美克（Olmec）文明是已知最古老的美洲文明之一，存在並繁盛於公元前1200年至公元前400年的中美洲（現墨西哥中南部），其信仰包含美洲豹崇拜。

ARTHRITIS

“Save your hands,” my mother says,
seeing me untwist a jar’s tight cap—

just the way she used to tell me
not to let boys fool around, or feel

my breasts: “keep them fresh
for marriage,” as if they were a pair

of actual fruit. I scoffed
to think they could bruise, scuff,

soften, rot, wither. I look down now
at my knuckly thumbs, my index finger

permanently askew in the same classic
crook as hers, called a swan’s neck,

as if snapped, it’s that pronounced.
Even as I type, wondering how long

I’ll be able to—each joint in my left hand
needing to be hoisted, prodded, into place,

one knuckle like a clock’s dial clicking
as it’s turned to open, bend or unbend.

I balk at the idea that we can overuse
ourselves, must parcel out and pace

our energies so as not to run out of any
necessary component while still alive—

the definition of “necessary” necessarily
suffering change over time.

The only certainty is uncertainty, I thought
I knew, so ignored whatever she said

about boys and sex: her version of
a story never mine. It made me laugh,

the way she made up traditions, that we
didn’t kiss boys until a certain age, we

didn’t fool around. What we? What part of me
was she? No part I could put my finger on.

How odd, then, one day, to find her
half-napping in her room, talking first

to herself and then to me, about a boy
she used to know, her friend’s brother,

who she kissed, she said, just because
he wanted her to. “Now why would I do that,”

she mused, distraught anew and so freshly
stung by the self-betrayal, I reached across

the gulf my father left, to her side
of their bed and stroked my future hand.

關節炎

「保護好妳的手，」母親說，
當她看到我用力擰開一個罐頭蓋——

就像她從前一再告訴我
別讓男孩子得逞，不許他們

碰我的胸：「要把它們保留到
新婚之夜」，彷彿它們是一對

貨真價實的水果。我諷刺地想像
它們有朝一日會淤青，擦傷，

變軟，腐爛，枯萎。於是我低頭
看向我關節粗壯的大拇指，我的食指

久久彎曲著，與她的如出一轍
像一個鉤子，美其名曰天鵝頸，

好似從中間折斷，不言而喻。
每當我打字，總忍不住懷疑

我還能堅持多久——我左手的每個關節
都盡力抬起，戳弄著，找到位置，

指節如同錶盤上喀噠走動的指針
伸直，彎曲，再放鬆。

我儘量迴避我們可能過度使用
自己的想法，我們理應分配並調試

精力，以便不至於在活著時
耗光必需的成分——

「必需」的定義必然
隨時間變易。

唯一確定的是不確定性，我以爲
我懂，我無視了一切

她關於男孩和性的說詞：她的故事
不同於我的版本。我不禁發笑

對於她締造的傳統，說什麼我們
直到適合年齡方能與男孩親吻，我們

沒有鬼混。我們誰是？我的哪部分
是她？定然不在我的手指所及。

但是多麼不尋常啊，有一天，她在房間裡
打著瞌睡，先是自言自語

然後對我說起她曾經認識的
一個男孩，她朋友的哥哥，

她吻了他，她說，僅僅因爲
他希望如此。「我爲什麼會那樣做呢？」

她兀自沉思，心煩意亂，重新
被她的自我背叛所刺痛。我的手

越過父親留下的版圖，抵達
他們牀上她那一邊，撫摸在我未來的手上。

翻譯 © 史春波

MEDITATION IN THE OPEN-AIR GARAGE

Leaves have no choice
but to articulate the wind:

aspens like zills, aglint and atilt;
the willow, a lone zither.

Riffling the cottonwoods at dusk,
winds find me cushioned against

the concrete in the open-air garage,
facing the trees, the drive, the road,

the mountains up the canyon’s
other side, until an onrush bellows

a mindless heartless ecstasy
through the empty sack of me.

露天車庫中的冥想

樹葉別無選擇
唯有發出清晰的風聲：

山楊擦響指鈸，閃熠靈動的光；
柳，一架孤孓的箏。

黃昏之風洗滌三角葉楊，
直至發現露天車庫裡

我靠著水泥地上的軟墊，
面朝樹，私家車道，公路，

以及峽谷對面的
峰巒，直至一股激流呼嘯

將那無心的狂喜
擊穿我空無的外殼。

翻譯 © 史春波

MEDITATION ON THE VERANDA

Bliss—right now:
beneath a blue jade
vine’s beaded bangs,

my sonar function
asleep, the I unstressed,
a syllable glided over.

(Except wherever
in the line it’s placed,
the I is stressed.)

Behind me, a lipstick palm.
In front of me, the early
stages of sunrise,

the world before
highlighter’s applied.

遊廊上的冥想

無上幸福——此刻：
在綠玉藤珠飾的
髮簾之下，

我的聲納機能
沉睡了，自我不再著重，
一個輕輕滑過的音節。

（但是不管放在
一句中的哪個位置，
自我都被強調。）

在我背後，一株口紅椰子。
在我面前，日出
即將登場，

爲升起的世界
塗上高光。

翻譯 © 史春波