冬天

你不能就那样把餐盒递给我，女士！
你要说请。
我说请。
余下六小时我想象另一位乘客的生命。他是初学者他正在
度过他长达十年的一场失事。每个夜晚
他将独自练习异常降落，然后在空中进入
一个
慢板。
恐怖暂停。
有人听得到他的叫喊，有人听不到
只知道是小小的灾祸，只要我们闭目养神
他就会熄灭。另一个更小的灾祸也随之熄灭——
更多的
更小的声音
是灰尘，遍布我们的身体
当我们轻轻跑动时掉落，细微之至
像冬天

Winter

You can’t just pass me the lunchbox like that, Ma’am!
You say please.
Please I say.
For the next six hours I picture the life of a spare passenger. He’s a toddler; he’s
spending ten years in an accident. Every night,
he himself practices abnormal landings. Then he enters a Largo
in
the
air.
Pauses the horror.
Some will hear his cries. Others will not,
only awake to small disasters that will soon die out,
while we take our naps. So will another smaller one.
And more,
and fainter sounds
are dust, all over our trunks of flesh
falling off through long light runs, as subtlest
as winter.