開車三十英里去一家體面的餐館

Thirty miles to the only decent restaurant

不算什麼，那只是懷俄明州

was nothing, a blink

長久呆滯的盯視眨了一下眼。

in the long dull stare of Wyoming.

半路上那個不知名但極其

Halfway there the unknown but terribly

重要的作家大喊一聲停！

important essayist yelled Stop!

我要融入這裏；他走出去

I wanna be

十五碼，迅速被天空淹沒

in

然後跑回來，

this; and walked

叫著上帝啊——這兒什麼都沒有！

fifteen yards onto the land

before sky bore down and he came running,

我曾遇到一位澳大利亞小說家

crying Jesus—there’s nothing out there!

說他從未學習烹飪

因為那會損害他的創造力。

I once met an Australian novelist

他最大的願望

who told me he never learned to cook

是當一個啞巴；他把紙頁摞放整齊；

because it robbed creative energy.

拎一把斧頭進入每一天。

What he wanted most was

to be mute; he stacked up pages;

而我只想寫一首小詩，

he entered each day with an ax.

一座鬼城

在一張更大的意念的地圖上。

What I want is this poem to be small,

你可以把我當成一隻鷹，在我飛過的地點

a ghost town

用鉛筆畫一個叉。

on the larger map of wills.

Then you can pencil me in as a hawk:

a traveling x-marks-the-spot.