• Late September 英文诗词
  by Charles Simic

The mail truck drives down the coast, carrying a single letter. At the end of a long pier, the bored seagull lifts a leg now and then. And forgets to put it down. There is a menace in the air—a thicket of trinkets, of tragic forms. Last night you thought you heard television. In the house next door—barefoot, wearing just shorts—wasn’t you? It was only the sea sounding weary after so many lifetimes of pretending to be rushing off somewhere and never getting anywhere.

This morning it felt like Sunday. The heavens did their part by casting no shadow along the boardwalk or the row of vacant cottages, among them a small church with a dozen gray tombstones huddled close as if they too had the shivers.

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