in Texas, the thick nights. Sidewalks as the dusk darkens,

德克萨斯，闷热的空气

              the highway’s streaking lights.

暮色渐暗时的

人行道，高速上

Some people are always in a hurry, beautifully—

掠过的车灯。

              some stop to tilt their heads

有些人总是

              at a cloud or strange sound.

匆匆忙忙，优雅的-

有些人停下来

You know the way some people belong

把他们的头歪向

              so much to one another

云或奇怪的声响。

              they seem not to notice one another.

你知道有些人

如此属于彼此

Even though I’d hardly noticed you

以至于他们好像

             I let my eyes be stopped by you.

意识不到彼此。

有些人好像什么

What I felt in my hands was an easy fire, almost

都不要-不要年月，

              effortless. But what did I feel

甚至不要言语。

              in my arms. Sun

我可以

                            rushing through weeds.

披一件薄外套绕在肩膀

一言不发

What cuts through your eyes are dry blues and sloping lines,

的和你出门吗？在我们脚下

              like a woman’s back

静置的含水层，

              as she reaches for a glass of water.

公园里黑色的树。

昆虫靠近地面低鸣。

You spend a morning before the canvas, casting space.

站在你的身体旁

没有困惑，或是

How have you reached this point in your life.

猜疑，一阵割过青草的气味，

一支垂下的手-

You live in a whole world, with a tangled garden

你把手伸向我的脸

              and a sense of time.

握住我的脖子-顽皮

              The hazards held a little at bay.

又莫名其妙。

你知道那些

Sometimes you ask yourself questions you cannot

我们懒得说出口

              answer. You dwell there too long.

的事情现在占据了

一片向外扩张的空间。十月

You know some people seem to ask for nothing—

清凉的下午-太阳

              not years, not even words. But they are asking.

又出现-可我已经

经历过这一切。

Shadowless, your paintings tense with red, ghostlines of skin,

接着是每个整夜的

              a longing so spare I couldn’t

饥饿。每一首小的歌。

              imagine it ending. I would wrap

谁的黑暗将在某一天

              a thin evening coat around my shoulders

完整

              and step out with you

                             saying nothing.

The aquifer below us very still, the black trees

              in the park. Insects

              buzzing low to the ground.

To stand next to your body without puzzlement or distrust,

              smell of dry grass,

              the cells of daylight in a leaf, the drop

              of a hand—you brought your hand

                            to my face and grasped my neck,

              metallic—playful and senseless.

You know how things we didn’t bother to say

              have now taken up a space that extends

              out. The sun returns.

A jolt in the muscle, a loss,

              but you’ve been through it before.

Cool afternoons in October you spend by the window.

              Each unarrested

              habit. A faint splash of leaves.

And each nightlong hunger.

Each small song, whose darkness

               will one day be complete.