daily we sit across tables
clothed in ritual
it's what we grasp for
the teapot, the spout
the windowsill, the salt
pass the windows
pass the salt,
please
please me, please
pretty please
but don't you see
the glass is stained
the view obscured
cover your privates
pot your plants
carnations of the nation
dieffenbachia, fig
private eyes
private enterprise
private practice
practicing privacy
it's what we grasp
the edge of frame
the ledge of falling
but don't you see
the tablecloth's transparent
the flowering of light
the body always says more
the articulation of joints
it's what we grasp for
every day we shed ourselves
every day we can
reach
the mosaic is still somewhere
overhead
translucent
Everything You've Ever
Sometimes it's all moonlight and movie magazines. All hemlines and heartbeats. Chandeliers. The backseats of Buicks or Saturns. 1939, 1999. All windshields and waiting.
Or say Sinatra at the Paramount in 1944. The cue curling clear round a full city block. Bleach-white bobby socks and saddle shoes, glossies from the radio station clutched to your chest. A parade of inches, of hours, until finally that marquee blinks into view, his cutout towering three stories overhead. Bigger than life.
That torn ticket stub between your fingers, the stone stairwell spinning all the way up to the 2nd balcony. Up among the gold leaf and tinkling crystal, the painted angels, you swear, humming hymns. Almost heaven. Still, down down below stands that single microphone, dead-center stage and spotlit, the moment all chrome and breathless and him, him, him just offstage. In the wings, as they say.
And when finally he steps out, the din is overwhelming and all you can see are plaid skirts jumping up onto the seats before you until finally, finally . . . there
There he is, if only big as a finger. As his bowtie, really.
But it doesn't matter, he's live and floating up to the microphone now, glowing with everything that, that inhale of . . . that first, forever . . .
评论
能翻译诗的人得是真正的诗人。
虽然原文看得云里雾里，不过诗还是不能翻译的～