Thirty miles to the only decent restaurant

開車三十英里去一家體面的餐館

was nothing, a blink

不算什麼，那只是懷俄明州

in the long dull stare of Wyoming.

長久呆滯的盯視眨了一下眼。

Halfway there the unknown but terribly

半路上那個不知名但極其

important essayist yelled Stop!

重要的作家大喊一聲停！

I wanna be

我要融入這裏；他走出去

in

十五碼，迅速被天空淹沒

this; and walked

然後跑回來，

fifteen yards onto the land

叫著上帝啊——這兒什麼都沒有！

before sky bore down and he came running,

crying Jesus—there’s nothing out there!

我曾遇到一位澳大利亞小說家

說他從未學習烹飪

I once met an Australian novelist

因為那會損害他的創造力。

who told me he never learned to cook

他最大的願望

because it robbed creative energy.

是當一個啞巴；他把紙頁摞放整齊；

What he wanted most was

拎一把斧頭進入每一天。

to be mute; he stacked up pages;

he entered each day with an ax.

而我只想寫一首小詩，

一座鬼城

What I want is this poem to be small,

在一張更大的意念的地圖上。

a ghost town

你可以把我當成一隻鷹，在我飛過的地點

on the larger map of wills.

用鉛筆畫一個叉。

Then you can pencil me in as a hawk:

a traveling x-marks-the-spot.