Tense
Benjamin S. Grossberg
My species has one for nouns
in the process of passing: say,
a planet you no longer stand on
but which still exerts on（施加于） you its
considerable tug1, the fist
of its massy core reaching
up through groin（腹股沟） and torso（躯干）.
A way, then, to say, not I am
on this world or I was, but
that other state, the one
between. We use it to discuss
the dying || though usually not
to their faces || and dinner ||
as plates are cleared || also love
in its last phases, the sharp
jerk before it, too, falls back
lifeless on the bed. Therefore
we listen especially carefully
to a soured beloved for
the inflection of ending:
that inflected ending added to a verb,
a susurrant（喃喃低语的） gut2 punch.
Once, a planet dweller3 and I
shared years in this tense
reality as if his couch were set
on a cliff edge: moonless
planet in the sparsely4 starred
rim of the galaxy5. We spoke
of ourselves, our common life
this way: never we are, we were ||
but drawn6 out years
in a liminal mood. I started
to get used to it || and to him ||
and imagined an entire
existence like that, hunched（缩成一团的）
under afghans in dark night,
feet over the edge, dangling7.
