impression of the brain with its wads

　　of flat batting and weird yarn, thinking how

　　can I read these films without a light board—

　　me, foolishly holding each chronic(慢性的，长期的) image up

　　against the screen door in the kitchen,

　　my brain's blank cauliflowers(花椰菜) over and over,

　　twenty tiny brain images per page, twenty-five

　　films, brain, brain, brain—and there

　　in the center, what everyone is talking about

　　(itself looking like nothing to talk about),

　　a shape like one of my daughter's plastic blocks

　　stuck in the thick of it all, wedged right in the fat

　　bulb(电灯泡，嫩茎) of breathing and bath time and bringing

　　in the weekend groceries and so I wake

　　at two A.M. with my films pressed to the side

　　of a fish that turns in an instant and is gone.