The Mailman

It is midnight.

He comes up the walk

and knocks at the door.

I rush to greet him.

He stands there weeping，

shaking a letter at me.

He tells me it contains

terrible personal news.

He falls to his knees.

“Forgive me！ Forgive me！” he pleads.

I ask him inside.

He wipes his eyes.

His dark blue suit

is like an inkstain

on my crimson couch.

Helpless， nervous， small，

he curls up like a ball

and sleeps while I compose

more letters to myself

in the same vein：

You shall live

by inflicting pain.

You shall forgive.

那是午夜。

他从人行道上走来

敲响了门。

我冲过去欢迎他。

他站在那儿哭泣，

向我挥动一封信。

他告诉我那里面装着

私人的坏消息。

他屈膝跪了下来。

“原谅我！原谅我！”他恳求道。

我请他进屋。

他擦着泪眼。

他那暗蓝制服

像块墨水污渍

在我深红的睡椅上。

无助，不安，渺小，

他蜷起身子像个球

睡着了，与此同时

我以同样的笔触

为自己编织更多的书信：

你要活下去

靠着制造痛苦。

你要宽恕。