我们降落在英国小说的书架之间，

We land in the aisles of British fiction

只为浸透空调的冷气。你的手指

to soak in the air conditioning. Your fingers

在勃朗特姐妹的书脊上游走。

play the spines of the Brontës.

我曾见过你。

I’ve seen you around.

在农夫市集，你小腿上

At the farmers market with a lick

沾着一抹自行车的油渍，

of bicycle grease on your calf,

你的帆布袋鼓鼓的，

your canvas bag flush

塞满甜菜。或者在前方几条街，裹得严严实实，

with beets. Or bundled, blocks ahead, urging

在雪中催促你的小狗前行。

your little dog through the snow.

而今天，你把衣服剪裁进这个季节：

Today, you’ve scissored your clothes

截短的牛仔裤，

to the season: cutoff jeans

一件无袖的演唱会T恤，

and a sleeveless concert tee

一路开衩到下摆。你身侧的刺青罗盘

slit to the hem. The compass

指向北方。

inked on your side points north.

乳头被冷气咬得发硬。

Nipples hard-bitten by the cold.

你把《维莱特》放回书架，音乐

You shelve Villette and music pours

从你腋下暗色的旋流间涌出。

from the dark curls under your arm.

零碎而古怪的信息，劳伦斯写道，

Odd little bits of information,

会搅动起难以测度的激情。

writes Lawrence, stir unfathomable passion.

就算读它三生三世，我也不会感到满足。

In three lifetimes, I could never read enough.