| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
by Richard Tayson
I'm late for the birth- day party， it's one of those cool after- noons when the world is clear， is made of glass， the sky so blue you want to look up at the very center of its pupil in case you get a glimpse of what comes after we leave here. I'm thinking my lover's sister is thirty-two today， but I want to let time stand still， let the tourists go on waving their America the Beautiful flags across 49th Street， let the three ladies whose hair is the color of smoke rising and ghosts taking leave of their senses go on laughing， near the fountain， may we all not have a care in the world. But it's August 23rd， I must get on the train， yet a tree keeps holding my attention， its leaves beneath which the Pakistani man I talked to last week sells his salty sauerkraut， lifting the lid and letting out steam each time he serves it over hot dogs， and the man pays him then turns toward me， his thick muscled arm tan BORN FOR WAR. The day is gone， the people around me gone， I am trying not to forget that I'm a pacifist， trying not to pay attention to his name- brand shorts and sun glasses that won't let you see a glint of eye behind them， I'm trying not to watch him eat the hot dog in two bites and nudge the woman beside him who pushes a stroller， his arm around sees me staring. Yes he might leap to the right， grab my throat punch me clean as a fish taken from the black glass of the city's river street， but the church bells are tolling6， people are saying their prayers three blocks from here in the hushed dark. So I take a deep breath and am no longer here， I haven't been born yet， there is no state of California， no Gold Rush or steam engine， electricity hasn't been invented， people cross open spaces on horses， no Middle Passage， and I watch the Huns kill the Visigoths who slice the throats of every living Etruscan， a crowning fights for land to walk on， then are walked on until someone carves on a cave wall， then someone until we do it all again， right up to concentration camps， rivers flowing with nuclear waste. 49th Street floods back， and the man with the tattoo turns open and drink me today， the 965th day of the new century. War goes into fifth month. The church bells stop and the ladies get up and walk toward Radio City and while I don't believe in an eye for an eye， I have than it takes for a nuclear blast to render this city invisible， shadow of a human arm I've torn hand gripping the air. 点击  收听单词发音
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
- 发表评论
-
- 最新评论 进入详细评论页>>
