They'll meet the three intents of life
around the corner: embers from an old men's pipe,
children's graffiti on the wall,
and a woman's wet leg in the rain.
They wander around, a whole night,
near the small white house, for signs.
The sun rises, a place to stay is still not settled.
From this point on things start to go wrong.
Without praying they cuddle in bed.
They pay no attention to the light that brutally breaks in
later on and fall asleep with a hearty smile
as if dead.
They get up and leave—not even bother to recall
the tender moments—they walk through streets
and enter a building with no marks—
disappearing in there—
in the same way
his mother predicted before she died.
In fact they have every intention
to look for the moment
that intersperses with memories of the past.
From time to time
they carry on conversations in code,
as on a snow day
walking back from the fog with a gentle pace,
in the same mood as peeling an orange for a patient.
The flowers from that greenhouse
must have left them, through the purple fog,
a memorable impression.
They start to cheer up
Let it be. Let them
stay unconscious briefly.
whisper a beat
but do not stir them.
Do not let the window of where they live together
Do not let them lose
the strength to overlook the impressionistic wilderness.
When they walk to the street center at dawn
they see life. Life
is the cleaning man in blue overalls
who stops working
to watch them approach. A pipe in his mouth,
he stands in the morning—... more »
It's morning or any time, it's morning.
You dream of waking up, you're afraid of waking up
so you say: you're afraid of ropes, afraid of women with faces of birds, so
you dream of your father
speaking bird words, drinking bird milk.
You dream of your father as a bachelor
who by chance, not in a dream
had you, you dream the dream your father dreamed.
You dream that your father says: this is a dream a dead man dreamed.
You don't believe but you're inclined to believe
this is a dream, only a dream, and it's yours:
it was once the handlebar of a bicycle keeping the shape squeezed by a hand.
Now it droops from your father's belly.
It was once a son refusing to be born.
Now it's you
crawling back to that handlebar. You've dreamed of all the details
like the teeth your father dropped on the ground, glittering
and laughing at you.
So you are not the death
but merely a case of death: you've dreamed your dream's death.... more »
Winter afternoon, mice skate around
I pretend to move out
I hammer here and there, taking nails out
of painting frames
and sleigh a desk to the center of the field
finding the horizon full of people,
each person a handrail of a stretcher
lifting something—the flesh of the earth
quivers like gold, the trees around
all dressed like me, with a black jacket on top
the lower part—the bare trunks
read: forest for sale.... more »
RIVER OF AMSTERDAM
November—while the night takes the city
there is only the River of Amsterdam
the oranges from my trees are on the river
swaying in the November wind
I try to close the window, it's no use
The river reverses its current, it's no use
The pearl-studded sun rises
it's no use
Doves fly off like metal scraps
The street without the boys is instantly hollow inside the river
the roof where snails crawl
sails up to me, slowly, the waters of Amsterdam…... more »
Waking at night with snow on the forehead it's still
the same like walking on a piece of paper and it's still
like walking into the field of invisible snow, and it's still
like walking between words, wheat fields, walking
in the shoes on sale, walking to the words
The moment you can see where your home is, it's like
still standing in the empty field, fixing your suit, still
bending your knees. The gold shields. It still is.
The world's most loud, the loudest
is, still, the earth
And the October light is passing though his legs when he's mowing, it's
like a golden corn field
with a burst of wild laughter, a burst
of firecrackers, a bright red pepper field, still, it's
the golden that no arrangement can reproduce
the order of furious growth is a burst of October
which is persuasive, omnipresent, it's
like the cold ox dung of September shoveled in the air, it's
the stones in October walking to us, forming a team, it's
November rain passes over a place without you, still, it's
the seventy pears on the tree laughing their faces off
Your father is still the cough among your mother's
The ox moves towards our disappearance, jotting
Still it's a family sitting on the cart watching the snow
licked by a huge ox tongue
O warm, it's still warm
And in memory, snow increases the weight of remembrance
It's what snow owes us. Snow falls to cover
the page that snow has turned over
turned over, but still is
And the winter field understands the cemeteries
four trees planted by four trees here
the old light opens the speaking, outside words'
cracking, but still it is
your father who saw your mother's death as the sky
and his own death as your mother's tombstone
your father's bone is walking up these hills
and still is
the planet walks through this life
every piece of broken glass in the backyard talks
for the reason of not seeing us again, says
still, it is still
(1993)... more »
Dark night—dyes Mother's hair, clip clop,
Horses are approaching. Mother's coffin
Begins to dress her up.
Her shoes climb up the tree by themselves.
Her wind refuses to disperse, like iron.
The ending of Mother means
The winter is dissolving
Winter has completed its task of giving pressure.
The horses clip-clop, loudly blooming on the iron board.
On the earth polished by snow, wind says
Its cruelty is
Cruelty of another kind; it says
Things fleeing away to the sky are
Paralyzed in mid-air which is to say
Mother's life means
Ten toes breaking at the same time
Which is to say Mother is casting charcoals into fire
Which is to say Mother is casting her child, the stupid daughter
In sympathy with the ashes in the fire
Saying this is sin, which means:
'I will repeat!'... more »
1993... more »
还叨着一只烟斗，站在早晨——... more »
写着：出售森林。... more »
只是其中一例：你梦到了你梦的死亡。... more »
"我会再犯！"... more »
从阿姆斯特丹的河上，缓缓驶过……... more »