低空

 

不会更高,是失去海拔的夜空,
是距离,从按门铃的指尖
压住深陷于食物的发烫的勺。

是让人担忧的餐具散出冷光,
把双份的病症,搅拌进数月后
咳喘着向我们举步的雪地里。

是勺子用金属的舌头卷起
碗底凉透的白粒,是一次外出
摇醒它:犹豫以至于昏睡的定音锤。

是脚,是离开的必然,让位于次要。
是天真的纤维,你显现它
只能求助于夜空替你掀开眼睑。

是你的手拧动另一种潮湿,
仿佛将要丢失的躁意
透过门缝,扶正屋内折断的香气。

2016,上海

 


LOW ALTITUDE

 

It won’t get any higher. It is night-sky approaching sea-level
it is distance, from the finger pushing the doorbell
to the hot spoon pressing its divot in the food.

It is cold light scattered from unsettling cutlery,
a double portion of symptoms stirred well into some months,
the spluttering snowscape stepping toward us.

It is spoon’s metal tongue tilling
crisp white grains in the bowl, it is an excursion
to shake it awake: tuning fork’s hesitant torpor.

It is foot, inevitable departing, a step back into secondary importance.
It is naïve fibre, you reveal it
must seek help from the twilight to pry open your eyes.

It is the other kind of wet your fingers twisted,
like a hot-headed moment about to be lost
through a crack in the door, to put right the room’s scent which snapped.

2016, Shanghai

* Translated by Stephen Nashef

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