It is not the moon, I tell you.

我告诉你，那不是月亮。

It is these flowers

是这些花

lighting the yard.

照亮了院子。

I hate them.

我讨厌它们。

I hate them as I hate sex,

我讨厌它们，就像讨厌性爱，

the man’s mouth

那男人的嘴

sealing my mouth, the man’s

封住我的嘴，那男人

paralyzing body—

令人瘫痪的身体——

and the cry that always escapes,

那一直会逃逸的叫声，

the low, humiliating

交合的

premise of union—

低沉而羞人的前提——

In my mind tonight

今晚，我在心中

I hear the question and pursuing answer

听到问题和刨根问底的答案

fused in one sound

融为一个声音，

that mounts and mounts and then

累积着累积着然后

is split into the old selves,

分裂成陈旧的自我，

the tired antagonisms. Do you see?

倦怠的敌对。你看得到吗？

We were made fools of.

我们已成了傻瓜。

And the scent of mock orange

而模拟橙的香味

drifts through the window.

从窗户飘出。

How can I rest?

我怎能休息？

How can I be content

这世界还有

when there is still

那种气味时，

that odor in the world?

我怎能满足？