translated by PLS

I’ve always been a bit scared of cats. Esmeralda strokes the stray cat in her arms, smirking at me. Her current movement, I think, is like a riddle for a single word verb. The answer, is “tuck”. Standing in the shadow of the outline of a flood emergency command unit, I wanted to give her an indulgent smile, but it may just look like embarrassment. I wanted to tell E about the things I can not accomplish: the world stores suspense in a bridge, as if locking the spring with uranium, sometimes reduced into self entertainment as a result of not receiving employment injury insurance. I imitate the surface of lakes, solving unfamiliar algebra with bridges, as willows hand over the unpredictable power, releasing sighs of labour outside the system. It’s the fourteenth time the spring rain attempts to lurk in the night with Du Fu, yet the latter’s poetry manifests, that rain is also endlessly coding Du Fu, and night is chosen as a preferred complier, rain steps into a chaos un-intermittently, like the rain from when the Tang dynasty started to decline, predicting the answer to Esmeralda’s riddle, interpreting “tuck” in a hieroglyphic way, as a salutation for herself, though these riddles coughed out by Du Fu with the pains of a caged beast when he was minstreling about the universe, bide as a sidekick at the joints of one after another riddles, muddleheaded and stubborn. 

作者：高敬天

我一直会有点怕猫，Esmeralda 抚着怀中的流浪黑猫，得意地对我笑。我想她现在的动作，像是打一个单字动词的字谜。谜底，是”掖”。我站在汛期抢险指挥部的轮廓投下的阴影里，想回她一个宠溺的笑，但看上去可能只是窘迫。我想告诉E一些，我力所不能及的事：世界将桥用作贮藏悬念的方式，如同它以铀为春天上锁，有时沦为拿不到工伤保险的自娱。我效仿湖面，袭用桥运筹一种我不熟悉的代数，垂柳递来捉摸不定的幂，捎带有体制外劳动力的叹息。春雨借杜甫试验潜入夜的第十四种方式，但杜甫的诗影射出，雨水也在不懈编程杜甫，而夜被用作首选编译器，雨脚如麻未断绝，似乎唐代由盛转衰之际的雨，预知了 Esmeralda 给出的字谜，以另一种象形方式演绎出“掖”，作为向她打的招呼，而杜甫一生应邀走穴于宇宙在困兽之痛中呕出的这些谜，捱在一个个谜面的关节处充任配角，稀里糊涂又执拗。

语象叙事短歌

翻译：诗验室

合作

六是一群鱼

所需的最小数目

短歌有五行

没关系。我写完后

你再加一行：沉默。

零碎物

一切碎于时

间，造或生，起与落

一妇人与狗

在沙滩捡拾奇贝：

谁读这些消息呢？

鱼

格布、塑料、箔：

此布料作品可爱，

造、非生，珍鱼。

身为一体非易事。

破、修、破、修。用伤口。

Ekphrastic Tankas*

by D.P. Snyder

Collaboration

Six is the fewest

number of fish in a school.

Tankas have five lines.

No matter! After I write this,

you'll add the last line: Silence.

Flotsam

All things break in time.

Made or born, all rise and fall.

A woman and dog

gather strange shells at the shore:

Who will read these messages?

Fish

Gingham, plastic, foil:

This fabric creature's cute,

made, not born, rare fish.

Being a body's not easy.

Break, fix, break, fix. Use the wounds.

老屋埋下

作者：李走走 

可以记载，丛林乌黑的圈禁。村落，四周来风

怀旧是梧桐树和我的，出生地

在上面；我，青石板，没有母亲

触摸的机会是跌坐的契机，凶手撞见懂事的婴儿

弃之以鼻。罪恶来不及遮住的，双眼、鼻息

同一切能锁定狂躁的复仇讯号，沉淀

等到向下去，歌声也一并赶到。竖笛，风琴和被借用

泥土介质。不及道别的人溺在天上，和愈发疲软

飓风，去往梧桐树的脚步规避

歌声和拔断电源的风扇旋转，悠扬来自某处

母亲、父亲和老屋

the old house buries

translated by PLS

it is possible to write, of the dark imprisonment of the forest. the village, encircled by wind

reminiscing belongs to the sycamores and me, birthplace. 

upon which: I, blue flagstones, the absence of mother

the opportunity to touch is a possibility to slump, the perpetrator runs into an intelligent baby

giving them a sneer. those that the evil does not have time to cover, eyes, breaths

any sign of revenge that can lock down restlessness, sedimenting

by the time it reaches the bottom, the singing is here too. clarinet, organ and borrowed

peat. those that don’t get to say goodbye drown in the sky, and the weakening

hurricane, the footsteps heading towards the sycamore stay away from

the singing and the spinning of unplugged fan, the melodies come from somewhere

mother, father and the old house

空气，越来越薄

翻译：诗验室

夜晚我会记载一些小成就：

你慢慢品尝早间咖啡的样子，

为下周、下个月所做的计划。

周末，我们在人群中

随意穿梭，去菜市场

和热闹的咖啡馆。我想要别人

见证我们共同打造的生活。

想要在转瞬即逝间享受你。

那已是一年前的事了，而我仍在追求

看似不可能的转变：

一项多任务处理的能力。

一个记脸的习惯。

一通打错的电话。

The air, thinning

by Zephyr Zhang

At night I catalog small victories: 

the way you linger over morning coffee, 

plans made for next week, next month.

On weekends, we lose ourselves 

in crowds, at farmers’ markets

and busy cafes. I want other people

to bear witness to this life we have built.

To delight, through transience, in you.

That was a year ago, but I’m still chasing

improbable transformations:

A capacity for multitasking.

A knack for remembering faces.

An errant phone call.

夏

作者：朴杪

腌豇豆的咸香里蝙蝠转向。

我们的边缘都已生出褶皱。

因彼此溶于阳光的轮廓、

因注视，再度面露神色。

等命定的风雨穿过

匆匆绿意下未完成的结构。

行走以外尽是无聊之事。

除去昆虫干裂的尸体，

一切不再可燃，却仍被消耗。

远去的石制寓言、

曾将其刻制的情感，而今透明

如一场午后的睡梦。

summer

translated by PLS

bats spin in the salty smell of pickled black-eyed peas

creases grow out of our edges

because of their contours dispersing in sunlight,

and of staring, the expressions start to appear.

waiting for the destined weather to traverse

the unfinished structure in the fleeting green.

there is only boredom other than walking.

everything else is incombustible apart from

the cracking bodies of insects, yet they are still being exhausted.

the distant fables made of stones

the feelings that once sculpted them, are now clear

as the dream from a siesta.