我扔下一小块，并不扔太远，

I give a piece quite near away,

然后又一块，还有二和三。

then another, one and two to three

然后说声“再见”，

and say good-bye with some dismay.

带着一点悲观。

We might have been twins, I born in May

我们没准曾是双胞胎，我生在五月，

and she of the blistered January

而她属于起泡的一月

colored like the vibrant cray-

如同蜡笔一般鲜艳，

on, clinging on to toys of the day,

紧抓住当下所有的玩具，

as mine become that of history.

而我的玩具立刻变成老古董。

“Again,” she cries and I obey.

“再来一次”，她大叫，我服从。

I hold the script of the gone by matinee:

我拿着关于逝去的白天场演出剧本，

before I ever found a scar, a yawn, a he;

却还没找到一个哈欠，一个伤疤，或者一个他；

past the years I’ve spun to macramé.

这些岁月我只是扭转，织出无数绳结的花。

Soon I must go, and she will stay,

很快我应当离开，而她会留下，

dwelling under the apple tree,

在苹果树下栖居，

never to wander blind in first foray.

从未漫游，从未尝试盲目地进发。

Sentient air, lead her not to disarray.

洞若观火的气质，让她从未混乱抓狂。

She flails. I walk. We are matching memory.

她鞭打，我行走。我们是彼此交错的记忆。

I have things she never will, a little say.

我有些东西她绝不想要，很少说起。

So I pull away and board the last ferry.

所以我努力抽身，踏上最后一班渡轮。