Churn

by Ross MacKay

The poet in the north lands

Sits, mythologically 

Stirring time with a stick 

Churning it. Twisting it. 

Looking to see what spins and what sticks. 

Kneading memories together 

Into thick wet clumps that hang loosely 

And drip slowly from the stick 

Back  

into the syrup of time. 

搅

翻译：诗验室

居住在北方的诗人

坐着，神话般

用一根棍子搅拌时间

剧烈地搅着。旋着。

看看什么会转，什么会粘。

将记忆揉成

又厚而湿的团块

垂在棍子上

缓缓地滴着

返回

时间之浆。