二十岁的诗人
（唐纳·豪尔/作，张文武/译）
影像随着他跳跃，从一根树枝到另一根树枝。他眼睛
明亮，头颅高昂，他在一根绿色的树枝下停下来，
充满机警。
看见他时，我想把他藏在某处。
另一片树林蔓延过山岗。而他将进入它，并找到那棵独特的槭树。他将穿过槭树的门，他的胳膊将脱臼，血将从他的嘴巴，耳朵，阴茎和鼻孔里冒出来。他的尸体将腐烂。他的尸体将碎成一丝丝变干。也许他将再次长出他的身体，在三年之后。也许他不会。
没有任何方法能阻止这件事的发生。
我想那最伟大的温和将会把一颗子弹射入他明亮的眼。而当我向他的眼睛望去，我发现我所见到的不是他的眼。
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Images leap with him from branch to branch. His eyes
brighten, his head cocks, he pauses under a green bough,
alert.
And when I see him I want to hide him somewhere.
The other wood is past the hill. But he will enter it, and find the
particular maple. He will walk through the door of the maple, and
his arms will pull out of their sockets, and the blood will bubble
from his mouth, his ears, his penis, and his nostrils. His body
will rot. His body will dry in ropey tatters. Maybe he will grow
his body again, three years later. Maybe he won't.
There is nothing to do, to keep this from happening.
It occurs to me that the greatest gentleness would put a bullet
into his bright eye. And when I look in his eye, it is not his eye
that I see.
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