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- 2007-1-20
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- 1970-1-1
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英文小诗赏析:Cement Guitar
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All morning I've remembered St. Ignacio's bruise,jaundiced seagulls over Quonset, November and the gross white sky. Days so long you walk home fifteen miles from the restaurant.
/ O5 j* T' y* u- p: x) o9 Y# @ Same waitress every day of your life and she never remembers your allergies.1 i1 _3 |+ x+ n, h7 \
Nothing on the map but scone crumbs and a drop of tea. Just manifold food and a dead request to bury the last of your seven receipts.
' H t: w. J* p& G# Y! L3 p. V9 K, o0 X Mother of foster-wit,father of straw,I can see how silence takes the place of those who cut their thoughts in stone before they need them.
2 V$ J7 O" m N/ [- w) N Stone is the past,and the past is a form of flattery.$ Z9 G& L7 P' s# k' c% R
Last winter,groups of children sent letters in sadness for the late Christmas suicide.2 v1 i5 K* `0 o# o; Z r3 x( n/ `
Addressed to those who managed the fishery,who named the docks and decided the colors of unfinished boats,the only way to read them was alive.$ s) F3 ~! q9 z& g/ C+ K
To think out loud about those children's names was to forget what you meant by dying.0 v& h/ n/ s H
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