正文
俩塑料瓶泛黄的劣质龙舌兰，
从墨西哥过来，为了密封把塑料拧了又拧。
想想吧，带酒上路。
阿富汗地毯。一个榨汁机，一个压蒜器。
一个可笑的杯子。刻在唱片光滑处的“小猪精切”问候，
那时你不光听唱片，
还会举起来，对着光看。
作者 / [美国] 迈克尔·霍夫曼
翻译 / 马丁格、phaeism
LISBURN ROAD
A few yards of vinyl records, well thumbed,
Under the cistern that sometimes overflows over the front door in London,
The drips giving visitors Legionnaires’ disease. Books in four countries,
The same books. No turntable. None of this is a boast.
Boots, sweaters, jeans, from pre-designer days.
Papers, birth certificate, dead passports, their corners docked,
My degree, my decree.
Unopened letters from my mother.
Three sets of taxes, old boarding passes,
Coins, bundled stationery envelopes that are stuck down or won’t stick.
The whatever world of passwords, streaming, and clouds—
Oh, streams and clouds by.
A trunk holding a suitcase holding a holdall,
The travel equivalent of the turducken,
Motheaten to buggery.
Children’s clothes, Oshkosh, never worn.
Two paintings by a man called Smith, American in Paris, or Brit in New York,
One by ‘Puck’ Dachinger, a black canted nude in a pink camisole,
With a stove in the corner, scratched with the back of the brush:
