你的焦點不在我的詩歌，而我也不去關心它 我開始喜歡簡單，記憶不勝負荷 你是風，你的圖畫像飛氈 你為我的屋頂貼上膠布，貓貓ＺＺ熟睡 逐漸上升的夢，伏着也可以飛翔，穿過我的煙囱 就像一面飄揚的旗幟：開張大吉 我想念你。 If I
If the beaten-down room of my memory can transform into inklines from your pen, I can fly If I can force my way into your nibs chimney, I can look down long at the lone furnace, and fill my chest with smoke.
Words have lost the luster of form, poetry too. It circles into your domain and is sent back An unopened letter youve already read The stamp of my saliva has ridden on airplanes
Your focus is not my poetry, nor will I care much about it Ive begun to enjoy simplicity; memory cannot bear the weight You are wind, your picture like a flying standard. You tape up my ceiling, kitty there snoozing a steadily rising dream, it can fly even when laid flat shooting up my chimney like a fluttering banner: Grand Opening Im thinking of you.
Yet unborn—this the end of 1998 I sit on the upper deck of a bus and flip through a collection of poems, my body accustomed to moving without purpose. I am always this passive, it takes me faster. A candlenut tree outside the window, a morning outside the window The candlenut only knows the benefits of sunlight, golden is our noun Yes, language, leaves fall on me here their veins bright, and I am a wind, setting them moving This is the last of 1998. Im not wearing much; I like reading poems on warm winter mornings. Objects rush at me, I let them pass by my eyes. To forget is no crime; objects rush at me I like the ephemeral world better than the permanent; I like recalling the things Ive forgotten better than recollection itself. This is the end of 1998 I am reading my poem, yet unborn.
Old objects return to my mind unlooked-for Teapot and four cups appear with their shadows. colors grow brighter around the dust, shimmering sparks bloom Cooled off by the dark background into dull stones, in my eyes
I hear a departing hand pick one up, then put it down The sound at the point of contact spreads to the edge of the porcelain, is pulled back by the cups and sealed by silence, frozen in position, never to know movement until one day, when my blind consciousness sees them return The dregs on the spout looking too much like shriveled branches