风在盒子里
by 特伦斯·海斯
这墨水。这名字。这血。这错误。
这血。这损失。这寂寥的风。这峡谷。
这/双生子/迅速/划桨/暗影绽放
在地毯一英寸之上——。这哭泣。这泥。
这颤栗。这就是我站立之地：在床边，
门旁，靠窗，在夜里/在夜里。
多深，多经常/一个女人必须被触摸？
有多深，多经常我被触摸过？
在骨头上，在肩膀，在额头，在关节：
触摸如同姓名，如同一根湿火柴。
触摸如同一只空鞋和一只空鞋，甜蜜
而无法理解。这墨水。这名字。这血
和奇迹。这盒子。这身体在一个盒子里。这血
在身体里。这风在血中。
（拈花微笑 译）
Wind in A Box
by Terrance Hayes
This ink. This name. This blood. This blunder.
This blood. This loss. This lonesome wind. This canyon.
This / twin / swiftly / paddling / shadow blooming
an inch above the carpet--. This cry. This mud.
This shudder. This is where I stood: by the bed,
by the door, by the window, in the night/ in the night.
How deep, how often / must a woman be touched?
How deep, how often have I been touched?
On the bone, on the shoulder, on the brow, on the knuckle:
Touch like a last name, touch like a wet match.
Touch like an empty shoe and an empty shoe, sweet
and incomprehensible. This ink. This name. This blood
and wonder. This box. This body in a box. This blood
in the body. This wind in the blood.
