The Next Apartment
D. Nurkse

I lived beside the lovers on that linden-shaded industrial block
between Linwood and Crescent. How they argued! Once
he pounded his head against the lintel（门楣） in a rain of plaster.
Once I watched her walk into the rain carrying her Lhasa Apso,
step into a cab, and give the finger to their lit window.

They fought with themselves when the other was gone,
struggling so hard with each word: I, you, tomorrow.
Since they loved each other forever, seconds were lethal¹,
split-seconds tormented²（折磨，使痛苦） them like the strange bluebottle flies
that zoomed³ from buried drums under Ebbets Field.

How they reconciled（和解） , bearing each other elaborate gifts:
silk orchid⁴, glass horse, a necklace that flickered⁵（闪烁，闪光） like flame.
They paced on the landing, practicing complex apologies
that turned seamlessly to justifications—how helpless
they were against being right! When they saw me

in the stairwell, they were relieved:
someone sane⁶, a human, someone who will die.
And they explained: Sorry about yesterday, sorry
about tomorrow ... They had a ferocious⁷ need for me
to remember them since they were going
alone into time itself. I wanted to ask them,
Do you think we can create a void in a supercollider
and destroy not just the world but the night sky?

But I had no inkling what the self is,
or loneliness, or marriage, or the universe
sealed in zeroes like honey in a comb.
So instead we talked about the Mets, Gooden's arm
going stale, Strawberry losing that amazing insight
that can pick up the seams on a rotating curveball.

And they turned the key in their lock: male, female,
it made no difference, they were the same person,
and entered their tiny room, and I entered sleep.