我需要你的十九行诗拖曳我的呼吸,

I need villanelles of you pulling

如同行文沿着页数下滑时，

my breath like lines moving down

承诺的押韵让我侧耳倾听。

the page and the promise of rhyme

我需要一首触感的六节诗,

bending my ear. I need a sestina

手掌的纹路、抚摸、轻扫、擦拭和揉捻—

of touch, patterns of palm, stroke,

循环的声音和压力，我在骨头中欣赏。

skim, brush, and rub returning—

我需要八行两韵诗的副歌,

a cycle of sound and pressure I

如同一段例句从你舌尖滚落,

apprehend in my bones. I need

新鲜而细腻，在这里，这里，还有这里。

the triolet’s refrain rolling off

结构，因为结构我需要戏剧的角度，

your tongue like a sample, new

我们肉体所建构的爱。

and nuanced here and here and here.

我想你。这种痛楚比残废的脚，被迫的押韵

It’s all structure is why I need angles

还要酸涩。如果你离开我太久，

of play, the love our bodies build.

你会先丢弃什么？节奏？诗行？回来吧。

I miss you. The ache's more sour

我们的十四行诗是床单上的十四个褶皱。

than a dropped foot, a forced rhyme.

一个光的对句给你的眼睛赋予绿色,

If you're free from me too long,

离我我的眼只有几寸，如同抑扬格在抑扬格上攀升。

what will you jettison first? Meter?

求你了。我需要你变成一首俳句：

Lines? Come home. Our sonnet’s

浓缩在音节里,

the fourteen creases in the sheets.

赤裸在最后一行的转折中。

A couplet of light greens your eyes

only inches from mine when iambs

ascend atop iambs. Please. I need

you in haiku: distilled in syllables,

laid bare in the last line’s turn.