◎董繼平 譯

蝙 蝠

那只蝙蝠熱愛我的肚臍。 當(dāng)山洞再也不夠的時候， 它就從我的肚臍中飛出來。 成千上萬的別的蝙蝠不理睬我， 同時我的蝙蝠吃掉了我的思想， 將其帶往南方的群山， 在那里， 阿帕奇人科奇斯， 為了像塌鼻子的響尾蛇而涂繪自己的臉。 那一夜， 我的蝙蝠回到我的手中， 它發(fā)出的嗶嗶聲讓我想起我把跳繩留在驟雨中了，留在汗水和高于那圍繞我的小車的蝙蝠線的獸欄中了。 那一夜，當(dāng)我上床的時候， 某種朝我運動的東西開始奔跑， 因為那只熱愛我肚臍的蝙蝠比我更了解我的軀體。 到了早晨， 當(dāng)蝙蝠之云消失，我發(fā)現(xiàn)我那只孤獨的蝙蝠在路上被壓碎， 輪胎轍跡給它的翅膀加上襯里， 很像是手掌上的生命線。

THE BAT

The bat loved my belly button. It flew out of it when the caverns were no longer enough. Thousands of other bats ignored me， while my bat ate my thoughts and carried them south to the mountains where Cochise， the Apache， painted his face to resemble the flat-nosed rattler. My bat made it back into my hands that night， its beeping reminding me I left my jump rope in the shower， the sweat and pounds lifting higher than the line of bats encircling my car. When I went to bed that night， something motioned to me to start running because the bat that loved my belly button knew more about my body than I did. When the cloud of bats disappeared by morning， I found my lone bat crushed on the road， tire tracks lining its wings to resemble lifelines on the palms.

拿藍(lán)色吉他的人 （畢加索繪畫）

俯身拾起一張紙， 我聽見一個出自于我的耳朵的聲音。 抬頭仰望， 皮膚發(fā)光發(fā)熱， 仿佛我錯了， 白日將消除分歧， 把它的琴弦?guī)Ыo我。 筆直而靜謐， 木頭被雕刻， 直到陌生的朋友把它握住。 我為了看見這一幕而活著。 當(dāng)發(fā)明和弦的時候， 我挪動了一下， 讓他坐在我的身邊。 他臉上有某些東西。 看不見他的手指。沒有要去界定的藍(lán)色時刻。 這一切安排是為了發(fā)音， 如同一個日子展開， 我被放進(jìn)去。 在我手中的那只小小的細(xì)頸瓶里， 我總是發(fā)現(xiàn)一個被焚燒過的藍(lán)色城市。

MAN WITH BLUE GUITAR （PICASSO PAINTING）

Bending down to pick up a piece of paper， I hear a sound coming out of my ears. Looking up， the skin glows as if I am wrong and the day will settle its differences， bring its strings to me.Straight and quiet， the wood is carved until the unknown friend holds it. I am alive to see this. When the chord is invented， I move over， let him sit next to me. He has something on his face. His fingers cannot be seen. There is no blue moment to define. It is entirely arranged to sound as if a day has opened and I have been let in. And it is always a burned blue city I find inside the tiny flask in my hands.

蝸 牛

現(xiàn)在蝸牛眾多。 在地窖中等待容易嗎？ 我能感覺到你的回答，難以呼吸。 當(dāng)門再次打開， 沒有人會記得我們是誰。 遮蔽我們眼睛的話語是什么呢？ 當(dāng)我們說話， 就有了果園和草甸， 一棵倒下的樹。 有人讓我們飲水， 一顆小小的種子， 有一種我們聽不見的音樂的假設(shè)。 有蝸牛出現(xiàn)的夜晚， 它們在黑暗中慢慢移動， 消失在我們還沒來得及看見就種植下的西紅柿植物中。 在爆炸之后，逝者為你作出決定之前， 你關(guān)閉了多少窗戶？ 我無法找到那知道我在想什么的頭腦， 無法回想起我把那珠子磨損的念珠遺忘在何處， 為了標(biāo)注蝸牛的旅程， 它那斷裂的鏈條灑下黑色的圓點， 這條獻(xiàn)給爬進(jìn)樹葉的沉默的項鏈。

SNAILS

There are many of them now. Is it easy to wait in the cellar? I can feel your answer it is difficult to breathe. When the doors are open again， no one will remember who we were. What are the words to shade our eyes? When we spoke， there were orchards and meadows， one fallen tree. Someone gave us a drink of water， a tiny seed， the assumption there is a music that we cannot hear. There are nights when the snails appear， moving slowly in darkness，disappearing in the tomato plants we grew before we couldn’t see.How many windows did you close after the explosion， before the dead made decisions for you? I can’t find the mind that knows what I am thinking， can’t recall where I left my rosary with the worn beads，its broken chain spilling black dots to mark a journey for snails， this necklace for a silence crawling into the leaves.

被甲蟲叮刺

被一只碩大的飛行甲蟲叮刺， 我把它從手臂上掐掉， 把這灰白的東西扔到墻上， 它那堅硬的外殼在磚石上咔噠作響， 阻攔那滾到草叢上的饑餓的大理石彈子， 在我屈服于那無害隕落的較小的星星的時候， 就像我踏上的被埋葬的煙霧一樣抽搐。 隨著那個紅色的刺孔腫脹成皮膚的笛子， 我揉了揉手臂， 當(dāng)我坐在草叢上，等待毒劑擊中我那怦然跳動的心， 把那個對稱之美的時代帶給我——為了想象在橋上發(fā)光的三原色， 我吸入燃燒的塵埃， 我的肺葉就變得更短。 被一聲撞上我的手臂的嗡嗡聲所叮刺， 我消沉地坐在地上， 對那只在我散步時越過我的小徑的紅狐低語， 它的突然出現(xiàn)把我?guī)螂[藏在黑暗中的動物遺骨， 它那蓬松的尾巴在月光下閃閃爍爍， 它沉默的警告先于我要去熱愛的狂熱而出現(xiàn)。

STUNG BY A BEETLE

Stung by a huge flying beetle， I pinch it off my arm and throw the gray thing against the wall， its hard shell clicking on the bricks， breaking into marbles of hunger that roll onto the grass，twitching like buried smoke I stepped on when I gave in to lesser stars that fell without harm. I rub my arm as the red hole swells into a flute of skin， my lungs growing shorter as I sit on the grass， wait for the poison to hit my pounding heart， bring me the age of symmetrical beauty - burning dust I breathe to imagine the primary colors glowing on the bridge. Stung by a buzzing that crashed into my arm， I sit low to the ground， whisper to the red fox that crossed my path during my walk， its sudden appearance taking me to the remains of animals hidden in the dark， its bushy tail glimmering in the moonlight， its silent warning staying ahead of a fever I am going to love.