我用脏手触碰你的背。

I touch your back with my dirty hands.

我将你打开。

I open you.

感到热量不断生长

I feel the growing heat

       在我的筋腱与

          between the sinews

           蛋白色的刈包间。

            and the egg-white bun.

              我吃掉包子的白。

                       I eat the white of the bun.

              我曾折出那些纸鹤

                       I used to make cranes

                     那被你扔掉的

                                   that you tossed away

                     寒冬季节的

                                               like promises

                                       誓言。

                                   in a severing winter.

                  我走近你时肮脏的我

                       I come to you in my dirty self, a poster

                  一张满是错误的海报

                                   full of deliberate errors

               被那年轻又任性的职员

                                               made under duress

                                 随意地涂写。

                                   by a young and willful staff.

                  就在这里我把你吃掉：

                       Here I eat you. Here, a food truck

                      一辆餐车，出售着

                                   sells sorrows in bun-sized bits, with you

                  包子般小口的忧愁

                                               wrapped in newspaper articles

        而你，

                                                           with jarring terms.

               裹在报纸里面——

                                               I eat you whole, including

               周围的词长着尖刺。

                                   the mayo on the photos, but soon

               我整口把你吃下，连沾在

                       darkness drizzles, my image of you

 照片上的蛋黄酱也没放过，但很快

            is a blur, my pen a bird in the air,

 黑暗就滴落下来，使我眼中的你

                       a uniformed officer smiles at me

 变得模糊，我的笔成为飞鸟，

            to scrape off even the salt in my hair

        一个穿制服的官员向我笑着

and dumps it back into the ocean.

    为了刮掉我头发上的盐

并把一切扔回海里