我打开门，我妻子正好
从浴室出来进入冷空气中，
皮肤上起了层鸡皮疙瘩。
她身上裹了一条毛巾，
看见我在看，解开了。
此时她微笑着，呼吸起伏。
竹影掠过台阶
没有搅动雪沫，我们
不留痕迹地爬上楼梯
倒在床上。乌鸫鸟也
留下影子。它在冬天的下午
飞越天空，屋檐下悬着的
冰凌发出刺眼的光。
在一幅古老的中国画的
下角，一位隐士还是云游僧坐在
山脚下，他长发蓬乱，衣装褴褛。
在他面前，落光叶子的树枝摇动。
这样的一幅画挂在炉子附近
我妻子现在就在那里，穿着衣服，
坐着梳头。
我往火上添着柴禾。
I open the door as my wife steps
from the bath into the cold air,
goose bumps on her skin.
She wraps a towel around herself,
sees me watching, and unwraps it.
When she smiles, her breath rises.
The shadow of the bamboo sweeps
across the steps without stirring
the dusting of snow and we leave
no tracks as we climb the stairs
and fall into bed. The blackbird too
has a shadow. It crosses the sky
on winter afternoons, the sharp light
in the icicles hanging from the eaves.
In the lower corner of the old Chinese paintings,
a hermit or wandering monk sits at the base
of a mountain, his long hair dirty and his clothes torn.
Before him, the leafless branches of the trees wave.
Such a painting hangs near the stove
where my wife, now dressed,
sits brushing her hair.
I add wood to the fire.
