阳光走在家以外

The sun treads outside the house.

家里只有我

I’m the only one home,

一个心平气坦的闲人。

an idler at my ease.

一日三餐

理着温顺的菜心

Each day, three meals.

我的手

I rinse the frail bok choi,

漂浮在半透明的白瓷盆里。

my hands

在我的气息悠远之际

afloat in the sink’s pale translucence.

白色的米

My breath is far off

被煮成了白色的饭。

while the pot’s white grains

纱门像风中直立的书童

steam to cooked rice.

望着我睡过忽明忽暗的下午。

我的信箱里

The screen door stands straight as a boy attendant,

只有蝙蝠的绒毛们。

watching me sleep

人在家里

through the afternoon’s lights and shadows.

什么也不等待。

In my mailbox

房子的四周

only fine strands of bat-hair.

是危险转弯的管道。

At home

分别注入了水和电流

one waits for nothing.

它们把我亲密无间地围绕。

随手扭动一只开关

Pipes turn tight around the house gripping, menacing,

我的前后

packed with water and power,

扑动起恰到好处的

surrounding my whole being.

火和水。

Flip a switch,

日和月都在天上

and before me, behind me

这是一串显不出痕迹的日子。

flick perfect fire, perfect water.

在酱色的农民身后

我低俯着拍一只长圆西瓜

The sun and moon hang in the sky,

背上微黄

day after trackless day.

那是我以外弧形的落日。

Beside tanned farmers

不为了什么

I bend and thump the oval watermelon,

只是活着。

the yellow blush on its back

像随手打开一缕自来水。

a sunset arcing outside me.

米饭的香气走在家里

只有我试到了

Not for anything

那香里面的险峻不定。

but to live.

有哪一把刀

Like twisting on a trickle of tapwater.

正划开这世界的表层。

The fragrance of steamed rice walks through the house,

一呼一吸地活着

its precipice and uncertainty

在我的纸里

known to me alone.

永远包藏着我的火。

Which knife

slices the skin of this world.

To live, exhaling after inhaling,

my fire

wrapped forever in my paper.