是更細更小的圖釘

Small slender thumbtacks

把他固定在一段白牆上

fix his image to a white run of wall

比瑪麗亞的心思更白

whiter than Mary’s thoughts

上面有她兒子灰而更灰的影

imprinted with the greys of her son’s grey shadow.

一百個瑪麗亞在另一間展館哭泣

A hundred Marys weep in the museums.

你當然看不到那棵圖釘

You can’t of course see the thumbtacks

因為白牆不是當年乾郁的山嶺

for that white wall’s no mountain 

有人在各各他咳嗽

from those dry and barren days. 

有人開汽車

Someone coughs on Golgotha,

土霧一起，山嶺連同一段天空

someone drives by,

在壁畫破損處消失

their dust swirling the mountain 

and its streak of sky 

什麽都消失的牆壁

off the flaking fresco.

但無法摘除

他那合適任何十字架的灰影

The wall where nothing lasts

因為他被一雙十世紀的手

cannot pick out

從一棵樹裏找了出來

his grey shadow, ripe for any cross, 

his form cut from a tree

他的手臂折成三段

by tenth-century hands.

身軀也是

手指和腳趾，長得超出了

His arms make three sections 

這個時代的比例

just like his body,

像要擁抱我們

its fingers and toes 

但更像剛錯過一場無邊的漩渦

grown longer than our own,

尾韻還擦在他的指尖上

as if to close us in,

as if they’d snatched at some infinite spiral,

his nails just grazing its end.