名人诗歌|Between the Beating Clocks

Cheap， made to travel they throw their tiny drumbeats out in stereo from the bed table

to the work station. They fill the room

with a music of ticking， only just out

of synch. It could be maddening，

Poe's buried heart， or that spinning toy，

a shuttlecock， ratcheting over nylon cord

slap， slap， slap. Or the body's racket

in the blood， the slow tock of sex undone^1.

It soothes^{3， they do， soothe2， the ping-pong}

rhythm of their second-clapping hands：

red line， a vein^{4 between this and that.}