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Clamor
Nick Norwood
The mill's non-stop noise, a whir and a clangor(叮当声),
follows him home, over the bridge and up
into the village with the lunch bucket knocking
at his knee, to bounce a kid on his knee
identical to the one next door, beside
the river that powers the turbines. The privy's
sulfurous stench stretches to the porch while
his own open windows pass heat and flies
and rugrats flap through the sprung screen door.
from a hovel on the Rhine, a hut on the Liffey,
the Mersey, the Volga, he is equal now
to the terrace-house bloke in Wigan,
to his next-century brother in Coimbatore,
or the one in a cinder-block flat in Nantong
its waters daily to the color it's dyeing --
red, blue, purple -- through a little trap door.
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