掠地者
[美]戴维•巴勃，一树译
一个同党静静地接近废墟――
另一个蜷缩于山坡一侧，另一个在房屋错层上
它裸露的光束搅乱了夕暮。
工人全都回家了。
蓝图被卷起放回管子里。
卷尺也收回壳内。
他出来了，像小说中巡警
在巡视。那儿，楼梯终止于狭窄处
像一个休止符，
一只雨燕兜着圈子，蜻蜓点水般
掠过未成形的风景窗，他视察了
建筑物，让自己进去了。
现在他到了：手掌击打在接缝及围栏上
机敏的拍击声，
耳语般的忠告形成的黯淡的云霓。
一个小时内他将拥有这块领地。
他的眼镜将变成银白色，当他估计了
留下记号的四分天窗的大小。
返回途中，马儿上来致意。
他把他们全部叫来；他翻越围墙。
有时，他的儿子不得不在车内苦等。
因此，我总是知道如何安置他
当我想要他只有自己，自由自在：
那儿，在抵押来的暗淡的光线中；
那儿，一撮撮游离的锯屑
聚集于他的袖口和每个门框
欢迎他横斜着的蓝色的影子；
任何地方他的暗下来的形体可以随意漂移
从房间到房间，此间晚餐将变冷――
一个熟练的陌生人，一个正在试演的幽灵。
诗人简介：不祥
附原作：
To the Trespasser
by David Barber
A quiet akin to ruins—
another contracted hillside, another split-level
fretting the gloaming with its naked beams.
The workmen have all gone home.
The blueprints are curled in their tubes.
The tape measure coils in its shell.
And out he comes, like a storybook constable
making the rounds. There, where the staircase
stops short like a halting phrase,
there, where a swallow circles and dips
through the future picture window, he inspects
the premises, he invites himself in.
There he is now: the calculating smacks
of a palm on the joints and rails,
the faint clouds of whispered advice.
For an hour he will own the place.
His glasses will silver over as he sizes up
the quadrant earmarked for the skylight.
Back then, the houses went up in waves.
He called on them all; he slipped through walls.
Sometimes his son had to wait in the car.
So I always know where I can place him
when I want him at one with himself, at ease:
there, in the mortgaged half-light;
there, where pinches of vagrant sawdust
can collect in his cuffs and every doorframe
welcomes his sidelong blue shadow;
anywhere his dimming form can drift at will
from room to room while dinner's going cold—
a perfect stranger, an auditioning ghost. |
