Diary

He starts at the lush oak tree,
making small circles on the lawn to a larger
Circle. I listen to the gardener mowing, sniff
The grass, the freshness from the cut,
I breathe in, and enter another garden
Of my imagination where the grass is swallowing
The white marble carvings on the bench—
Waves of the grass, like death caressing me
From human fingers.

I wake up, and see an abandoned mower.
It’s cold. Things around me are submitting to something colder.
The oak tree bursting out, the gardener
At rest, eternally. It starts snowing
From my pen— it will not fill the garden
But my throat. This white death, the reincarnation of seasons
Of larger death, I love
The choking white snow, the thrill of loss. I recall
The last green breath of grass…

1992

日记

日记

从一棵茂盛的橡树开始
园丁推着他的锄草机，从一个圆
到另一个更大的来回。
整天我听着这声音，我嗅着
青草被刈去时的新鲜气味，
我呼吸着它，我进入
另一个想象中的花园，那里
青草正吞没着白色的大理石卧雕
青草拂动；这死亡的爱抚
胜于人类的手指。
醒来，锄草机和花园一起荒废
万物服从于更冰冷的意志；
橡子炸裂之后
园丁得到了休息；接着是雪
从我的写作中开始的雪；
大雪永远不能充满一个花园，
却涌上了我的喉咙；
季节轮回到这白茫茫的死。

我爱这雪，这茫然中的颤栗；我忆起
青草呼出的最后一缕气息……