C.D. Wright's (1949-2016) most recent books are Cooling Time: An American Poetry Vigil and One Big Self: Prisoners of Louisiana with photographer Deborah Luster. She was the recipient of numerous awards including a 2004 MacArthur Fellowship and was an elected member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Wright was on the faculty at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island.

C.D. 莱特(1949-2016)的最新作品集是《冷却时间：美洲诗的不眠夜》和《一个大写的自我：路易斯安那的囚犯》（该书配有Deborah Luster拍摄的照片）。她曾多次获奖，包括2004 麦克阿瑟奖学金，曾获选美国艺术和科学学院奖成员。她曾在美国罗德岛州普罗维登斯的布朗大学任教多年。

星子安娜，Anna Yin中国湖南出生。99年移民加拿大，其英文诗多次获奖，其中包括 2005 年安省的“Ted Plantos 纪念奖”和2010 年和2013年 的“Martry文学奖“。星子著有五本诗集，包括《Wings Toward Sunlight》（2011）以及《Inhaling the Silence》（2013）。星子是加拿大诗人联盟安省代表，她工作和居住在安省的密西沙加。

Anna Yin was born in China and immigrated to Canada in 1999. Anna won the 2005 Ted Plantos Memorial Award, the 2010 MARTY Award, etc. She has published five books of poetry. Collections of her poetry Wings Toward Sunlight was published by Mosaic Press in 2011 and Inhaling the Silence was published in 2013. Anna is Ontario representative for the League of Canadian Poets. She works and lives in Mississauga, Ontario.

only the crossing counts.

只有交错才有意义。

It's not how we leave one's life. How go off 
the air. You never know do you. You think you're ready
for anything; then it happens, and you're not. You're really
not. The genesis of an ending, nothing
but a feeling, a slow movement, the dusting
of furniture with a remnant of the revenant's shirt.
Seeing the candles sink in their sockets; we turn
away, yet the music never quits. The fire kisses our face.
O phthsis, o lotharian dead eye, no longer
Will you gaze on the baize of the billiard table. No more
Shooting butter dishes out of the sky. Scattering light.
Between snatches of poetry and penitence you left
the brumal wood of men and women. Snow drove 
the butterflies home. You must know
How it goes, known all along what to expect,
sooner or later…the faded cadence of anonymity.
Frankly my dear, frankly my dear, frankly
			

这不是我们如何与生活告别，从这个世界消逝。 
你从来都不知道，从来都不，对吗。你以为可以面对
一切。它发生了，你却没有准备好。你真的没有准备
好。 
一个结局的起源如此之空，只剩下一个感觉，缓慢的
移动，积尘的家私，亡灵留下的衫的碎片。 
看烛光微弱下去，我们转过脸，音乐还在萦绕。火焰
舔着我们的脸，哦，这只病态的，毫无生气的死眼睛，
你不能再凝视台球桌面的绿绒了吧。 不再 
射击天上飘飞的碗碟。阳光散碎着。 
在诗的残片和忏悔之间，你留下冬日秃林一样的男人
和女人。 
雪把蝴蝶们赶回了家。你必须知道 
这是怎么回事。清楚这一路的期待， 
迟或早… 这无名的旋律将归于沉寂。 
坦白地说，我亲爱的，坦白地说，我亲爱的，坦白地
说，
			

in our only time.

在我们独自的期限里。

                           
"Follow me," the voice, the long, longed-for voice stops
the writing hand. "I have your shoes." Except
for a rotating fan, movement at a minimum. The plan,
if one can call it a plan, is to begin in what is known
to some as the perennial present; beginning 
with a few sentences written in a kitchen while others
cling to their own images in twisted sheets of heat.
A napkin floats from a counter in lieu of a letter. Portals
of the back life part in silence: O verge
of song, O big eyelets of daylight. Leaving milk and bowl
on the table, leaving the house discalced. All this 
mystery, mildly erotic. Even if one is terrified
of both death and the color red. Even if a message is sent
each of us in secrecy, no one can make it stay.
Notwithstanding scale—everything has its meaning,
every thing matters; no one a means every one an end
			

“随我来” ，声音传来，
悠长而热切； 
让书写的手停了下来。 
“我带上了你的鞋”
除了旋转的风扇， 
没有任何移动物体。 
这样的计划，如果能唤作计划的话， 
是一些在别人看来习以为常的事务， 
从厨房写下的几行话开始，而别人还流连 
在他们自己床单余热的想象里。 
一片餐巾纸飘离台面，取代了一封信。 
过往生活的入口无声地分离： 
哦，那些歌的尽头，阳光空洞的眼。 
桌上还留着牛奶和碗，就这样赤着脚离开房子。 
这一切的神秘，弥漫着一丝暧昧。
即使一个人惧怕死和红色，
即使消息秘密地发送于我们，没有人能让它留下来。 
尽管衡量，任何事都有它的意义， 
事事都有关联； 
没有人只是一个过客，每个人都是一个结局
			

until words turn to moss.

直到文字变成苔藓。

                           
This was all roses, here, where an overblown house crowns 
the hill, the whole field, roses, all the way to the end; 
when the rosarian died, the partition of roses 
began. We've come out of nowhere, literally, 
nowhere, autumnal towns marked for destruction 
by a phantom hand; houses held underwater, every bed 
a sunken tub, tools drowned between rows, every keyhole 
caulked; clouds hallucinating girls asleep on a wedge 
of wedding cake; the white rose, among the greatest of liars 
beginning to show the debilitating effects of fame, 
the ever-popular blaze placates a vase; the bad sons 
of thunder beating back a strand of light; someone 
who knows nothing apart from the rain 
standing on a chair in muddy legs; the roses 
blown into their cumulonimbuses, 
and someone whose glove is recovered, a face 
that doesn't come clear, a face drawn under an umbrella, 
beautiful, charcoal, beautiful, like words 
that never get old, the sons of thunder beating
			

这里曾经玫瑰遍地，整个田野和山岗
都是。从山顶上一所鲜花茂密的房子
开始，一路铺展开来。
当花匠死去，花儿开始分离。 
我们来自无处，纯粹意义上，无处置身，
秋天的小镇已被一只无形的幻影之手
作上毁灭的记号，
房屋们都淹在水下，每一张床成了淹水浴盆，
工具没在水滩里，每个洞眼充塞着。
云层屯集着像女孩们昏睡于层叠的蛋糕边缘。 
白玫瑰，在巨大的谎言中，显露渐渐虚弱的光彩。 
和曾经眩目光芒抚慰着的花瓶。
雷电的儿子们回击着一线光亮， 
有人不知情地站在泥泞的高椅子上， 
玫瑰被吹向积雨云，有人找到了她的手套，看不清楚的脸，从伞下 
移出，美丽的，黑炭似的，美丽的，像语言从来不会变老， 
雷电的儿子们回击着，