The clock still ticks. It’s time I come around again to my senses. Coffee grinds and cigarette ashes. The spider on the tightrope— He’s my brother and deserves to live. We were both so full of ourselves once. Nevertheless, outside this window, it’s the dance of the city, punctilio of neon, the random scuttle of brown leaves, the souls undying. A tall well-dressed woman disappearing around a corner, the stilling shadows on a windowpane, a largeness to imagine at this, the eleventh hour and after these feet finding earth, and this being alive.

中文翻译：

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华莱士史蒂文斯没有我的诗的深夜

时钟还在滴答作响。是时候让我再次清醒过来了。咖啡渣和烟灰。走钢丝的蜘蛛——他是我的兄弟，活该。曾经我们俩都如此自满。然而，在这扇窗外，是城市的舞蹈，霓虹灯的点点滴滴，棕叶的随意掠过，不死的灵魂。一个身材高大、穿着考究的女人消失在拐角处，窗玻璃上静止的阴影，想象在这一点上的广阔，在这些脚找到地球的第十一个小时和之后，这还活着。