黎明，将在燃成残烬的星星间
跨越天空的所有轨道转换，
将街道的尽头
和光的列车对接。
现在，把我们从床上拖进日光中；
清除那些压迫在脑海中的事物：
披上霓虹
飘曳、膨胀、闪耀
沿着眼睛和眼睛之间的灰色大道
红色与黄色的，是字母和痉挛的符号。
一天天的残月，瘦减！瘦减！
从窗户我看见
一个巨大的城市，小心翼翼地显现，
人工的奇巧造出它的精致微妙，
每一处的细节，
从檐口到正立面，
雍容地伸向
微白的天空，似乎在那里变得犹疑。
(那里，在玻璃水漏的重天中
它慢慢地增大
从铁和铜晶的熔滴中，
小小的罐中的神奇“花园”
颤抖着再次立起，
淡蓝，青绿，还有砖红。）
麻雀匆忙开始了它们的嬉戏。
接着，在西边，“轰隆！”一团烟云
“轰隆！”爆炸的花球
再次绽放。
在种植园，这声音说的是“危险，”
或曾经是“死亡，”所有在此劳作的雇工
上床去睡，感觉到
短发在颈后
直竖起来。）烟云移去。
一件衬衫挂在一根晾衣绳上。
沿着下面的街道
水车辘辘而来
甩着它吱吱作响的雪白扇轮
驶过果皮和报纸。水在变干
浅处干，深处湿，清凉的
西瓜的图案。
我听见清晨的破晓
自石头的墙、厅堂和铁床上袭来，
四散或者聚集如瀑，
对所期待的警示：
所有人的怪癖的爱神醒过来，
人们要为他们晚间的食粮筹备终日，
你们将得享美餐
在他的心上，他的，还有他的，
那么对他们施展你们的善行，
把他们钟爱的人拽上大街。
鞭打他们，只用玫瑰，
却要轻柔，像氦气一样，
因为总是为了某个人，或者某些人，清晨来到
它的头落在他的床边，
它的脸变了
于是城市的
形象在他睁开的双眼里变小
倒转而扭曲。不。我是说
扭曲并显现，
如果他确实看到了它。
Love Lies Sleeping
Elizabeth Bishop
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.
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