until words turn to moss.
This was all roses, here, where an overblown house crowns
the hill, the whole field, roses, all the way to the end;
when the rosarian died, the partition of roses
began. We’ve come out of nowhere, literally,
nowhere, autumnal towns marked for destruction
by a phantom hand; houses held underwater, every bed
a sunken tub, tools drowned between rows, every keyhole
caulked; clouds hallucinating girls asleep on a wedge
of wedding cake; the white rose, among the greatest of liars
beginning to show the debilitating effects of fame,
the ever-popular blaze placates a vase; the bad sons
of thunder beating back a strand of light; someone
who knows nothing apart from the rain
standing on a chair in muddy legs; the roses
blown into their cumulonimbuses,
and someone whose glove is recovered, a face
that doesn’t come clear, a face drawn under an umbrella,
beautiful, charcoal, beautiful, like words
that never get old, the sons of thunder beating
这里曾经玫瑰遍地，整个田野和山岗
都是。从山顶上一所鲜花茂密的房子
开始，一路铺展开来。
当花匠死去，花儿开始分离。
我们来自无处，纯粹意义上，无处置身，
秋天的小镇已被一只无形的幻影之手
作上毁灭的记号，
房屋们都淹在水下，每一张床成了淹水浴盆，
工具没在水滩里，每个洞眼充塞着。。
云层屯集着象女孩们昏睡于层叠的蛋糕边缘。
白玫瑰，在巨大的谎言中，显露渐渐虚弱的光彩。
和曾经 眩目光芒抚 慰着的花瓶。
雷电的儿子们回击着一线光亮，
有人不知情地站在泥泞的高椅子上，
玫瑰被吹向积雨云，有人找到了她的手套，看不清楚的脸，从伞下
移出，美丽的，黑炭似的，美丽的，象语言从来不会变老，
雷电的儿子们回击着,直到文字变成苔藓
****************************************
in our only time.
“Follow me,” the voice, the long, longed-for voice stops
the writing hand. “I have your shoes.” Except
for a rotating fan, movement at a minimum. The plan,
if one can call it a plan, is to begin in what is known
to some as the perennial present; beginning
with a few sentences written in a kitchen while others
cling to their own images in twisted sheets of heat.
A napkin floats from a counter in lieu of a letter. Portals
of the back life part in silence: O verge
of song, O big eyelets of daylight. Leaving milk and bowl
on the table, leaving the house discalced. All this
mystery, mildly erotic. Even if one is terrified
of both death and the color red. Even if a message is sent
each of us in secrecy, no one can make it stay.
Notwithstanding scale—everything has its meaning,
every thing matters; no one a means every one an end
在我们独自的期限里。
” 随我来” ，声音传来，
悠长而热切；
让书写的手停了下来。
” 我带上了你的鞋。”
除了旋转的风扇，
没有任何移动物体。
这样的计划，如果能唤作计划的话，
是一些在别人看来习以为常的事务，
从厨房写下的几行话开始，而别人还留连
在他们自己床单余热的想象。
一片餐巾纸飘离台面，取代了一封信。
过往生活的入口无声地分离：
哦，那些歌的尽头，阳光空洞的眼。
桌上还留着牛奶和碗，就这样赤着脚离开房子。
这一切的神秘，弥漫着一丝暧昧。
即使一个人惧怕死和红色 ,
即使消息秘密地发送于我们，没有人能让它留下来。
尽管衡量，任何事都有它的意义，
事事都有关联；
没有人只是一个过客，每个人都是一个结局
