We land in the aisles of British fiction

我们降落在英国小说的书架之间，

to soak in the air conditioning. Your fingers

只为浸透空调的冷气。你的手指

play the spines of the Brontës.

在勃朗特姐妹的书脊上游走。

I’ve seen you around.

我曾见过你。

At the farmers market with a lick

在农夫市集，你小腿上

of bicycle grease on your calf,

沾着一抹自行车的油渍，

your canvas bag flush

你的帆布袋鼓鼓的，

with beets. Or bundled, blocks ahead, urging

塞满甜菜。或者在前方几条街，裹得严严实实，

your little dog through the snow.

在雪中催促你的小狗前行。

Today, you’ve scissored your clothes

而今天，你把衣服剪裁进这个季节：

to the season: cutoff jeans

截短的牛仔裤，

and a sleeveless concert tee

一件无袖的演唱会T恤，

slit to the hem. The compass

一路开衩到下摆。你身侧的刺青罗盘

inked on your side points north.

指向北方。

Nipples hard-bitten by the cold.

乳头被冷气咬得发硬。

You shelve Villette and music pours

你把《维莱特》放回书架，音乐

from the dark curls under your arm.

从你腋下暗色的旋流间涌出。

Odd little bits of information,

零碎而古怪的信息，劳伦斯写道，

writes Lawrence, stir unfathomable passion.

会搅动起难以测度的激情。

In three lifetimes, I could never read enough.

就算读它三生三世，我也不会感到满足。