Poems
wasps
黄蜂
August 3, 2026
how starkly clear you hear them gnawing
at the wood of lawn chairs near the awning
all day in august or july, and not much longer,
till beneath their pincers every bit of fiber
is ground down, and the entire piece of furnishing
was never there. birds sing, birds will have sung;
wind came, wind went on; a gloom weighs on the west
lit up by nothing but their fragile nests:
like bright white lanterns or like swelled-up sails
below the roof ridge, boiled out tomcat skulls,
like paper moons, some froth, a sea-spray guidon.
a buzzing, humming sound above the empty garden.
七八月间，遮阳篷旁草坪椅的木头里，它们啃噬的声响何其清晰，日日如此，也持续不了太久，直到每一丝纤维都在螯钳下磨成齑粉，整件家具仿佛从未存在过。鸟在鸣叫，鸟将鸣叫过；风来了，风又走了；一片阴郁压在西天，照亮那方天色的，唯有它们脆弱的巢：像明亮的白灯笼，或屋脊下鼓胀的帆，煮得膨开的公猫头骨，像纸糊的月亮，些许浮沫，一面浪花凝成的燕尾旗。嗡嗡的，营营的声响，悬在空荡荡的花园上方。
(Translated, from the German, by David Keplinger.)
（译自德语，大卫·凯普林格（David Keplinger）英译。）
This is drawn from “Wisp.”
本诗选自《一缕》。