历史：欧涅西洛

高处，城门上的颅骨，

当第一束光出现，开始蜂鸣。

带着依旧微微吃惊和疑惑的

神情，在曾经有一张脸的地方。

里面有什么东西在工作：

头颅中的一组精密机械，

蜜蜂的金色齿轮，

环环相扣。天竺葵

和郁金香，野罂粟和剑兰——

一块一块，全部回到

看不见东西的筐，直到

洞中的蜜蜂眼睛开始转动。

少年并不在乎人们

如何称呼他，乞丐或国王，

只要沿着太阳晒暖的砖

蜜蜂向上攀爬，

他想象的蜂蜜黏在手指。

蜜蜂的舞蹈，一块墓志铭。

活着时他几乎拥有一片国土。

现在一个国家活在他的头颅。

histories: onesilos

up there: the skull at the city gate

that with the first light starts to hum,

still holds to that slightly agape

expression, where the face had been.

something labors behind it: the del-

icate swarm-mechanics in the cranium,

the bees a set of golden cog wheels

that intertwine. geraniums

and tulips, wild poppies, gladiolas—

piecemeal all things return in their ways

to the blind hive, until the bee eyes

in their sockets commence to roll.

for the boys it makes no difference

what name they called him once,

beggar or king, when they scale the

sun-warmed bricks, and the honey

he invents sticks to their fingers.

the bee dance is an epitaph.

he almost had a kingdom while alive.

now, inside his head: this empire.

In Jan Wagner, The Art of Topiary: Selected Poems, trans. by David Keplinger (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2017).

在井里

六或七米的自由落体

我比任何一次离得

更远，一位宇航员

在石头堆起的舱内，

从远处观察那

珍贵的和圆的蓝。

我是那个井中的

孩子。只有苔藓

沿着自己的辫子

向上攀爬，常青藤

越过常青藤的肩

通向自由，逃离。

时而有鸟的白色

闪光，时而闪过

白色的鸟。我吃，

慢吞吞。月亮，

将自己移到洞口，

显微镜上科学家的眼睛。

在我刚刚明白“潮虫”和“石头”

就是潮虫和石头的那一刻，

嘈杂声传了下来，急促，喊叫，

还有一根晃到我眼前的绳子。

我回到了教堂的钟声中，

回到面包香味和汽车时刻表，

大树下的影子，

关于天气的闲聊，回到

洗礼和悲剧，回到

头条新闻，我是

其中之一。

in the well

six, seven metres free-fall

and i was further away

than ever before, a cosmonaut

in his feld-stone capsule

gazing from afar

at the precious round of blue.

i was the child

in the well. only the moss

climbed the braided twine

of itself to the lip, ivy

climbed on shoulders of ivy

into the open to freedom.

now and then the white flash

of a bird, off and on

the white bird flash. i ate

anything slower. the moon

slid over the opening—

a boffin’s eye at the microscope.

just when the words slater and stone

had begun to mean slater and stone,

noise arrived, a hollering and hurrying:

in front of my nose began a rope.

i went back to tolling bells,

back to bread-smells and bus times,

to shade under the trees

and talking about the weather, went

back to christenings and tragedies,

to the headlines, of which

i was one.

In Jan Wagner, Self-Portrait With a Swarm of Bees, trans. by Iain Galbraith (Todmorden: Arc Publications, 2015).

♫