学习啦【英语诗歌】 编辑：韦彦 发布时间：2016-09-28
by Mark Levine
Beauty in its winter slippers pproached us by degrees on the gravel path.
We were hitching a ride out; had been hitching.
Our suitcase freighted with a few gardening tools lifted from the shed while the old man，
old enough，looked away.
He who went fishing at night (so he said) carrying in his pail a nest of tiny flame.
We were headed， headed out，we were going in a direction.
No tricks or intrigue， just a noisy ineptness.
If that's a word. Beauty， dipped in resin beneath its shag，
was always ready with the right curse to recite to our nature.
It is in us， it is，in the smokehouse in the woods and the old man looked away.
Song of experience.
There were treads in the snow.
We waited for our hitch.
There were train tracks which stung with clods of this region's rare clay.
We were boys， boyish， almost girls.
Left alone on the roof， we would have dwindled.
Incrimination called to us from the city and its fog-blacked lake，
called to us from the salvaged farms beyond the lake，
from the wilds beyond that.
Guilty was good.
Night Train Through Inner Mongolia
by Anthony Piccione
Now the child is a runny-nosed stranger
you've finally decided to share your seat with，
and the whole thing keeps heaving into the dark.
The child sleeps unsweetly hunched against you，
your side is slowly stinging， he has wet himself，
so you do not move at all. I know you.
You sit awake， baffling about a quirky faith，
and do not shift until morning. This is why
you are blessed， I think， and usually chosen.
One Petition Lofted into theGinkos
For the train-wrecked， the puck-struck，the viciously punched，
he pole-vaulter whose pole snapped in ascent.
For his asphalt-face，his capped-off scream，
God bless his dad in the stands.
For the living dog in the median
car-struck and shuddering on crumpled haunches，
eyes large as plates， seeing nothing， but looking，looking.
For the blessed pigeon who threw himself from the cliff
after plucking out his feathers just to taste a failing death.
For the poisoned， scalded， and gassed， the bayoneted，
the bit and blind-sided，asthmatic veteran who just before his first date in years
and years swallowed his own glass eye.
For these and all and all the drunk，
Imagine a handful of quarters chucked up at sunset，
lofted into the ginkgos and there，at apogee，
while the whole ringing wad pauses， pink-lit，
about to seed the penny-colored earth with an hour's wages
As shining， ringing， brief， and cheap as a prayer should be
Imagine it all falling into some dark machine brimming with nurses，
nutrices ex machina and they blustering out with juices and gauze，
peaches and brushes，to patch such dents and wounds.