四首诗

遗失

一个人遗失在信中。书中。遗失在手离开后的灰尘里以及椅子 灯光后被用过的感情的轭具以及列车呼啸而过的阴影——

他有着树叶和云彩的形状在他的脚印里有着积水映出的四季的形状

有时，某人会带着他 在沉重发炎的膝关节里——走向郊外 旧铁轨旁在一丛被压倒的野蒿上与另一个他相遇——

一个人遗失在被他遗失的    一切事物中。

消失

消失。比死亡远，比拥抱近。我接受遗产，你所奖赏的：    寂静。

你的旨意，我遵从。

在这横亘的安宁中我拥有无限的时刻。广袤夜空中的群星。

金色的你的身体在闪烁，到处都是。金色的你的嘴唇。金色的！

麦田把它逝去的韶光种植在我命运的屋顶。

大河村遗址

又一个大河村。乌鸦在高高的杨树上静卧着成群的麻雀飞过晒谷场翅膀沾满金黄的麦芒它们认出我。

微风还在几年前吹过没有岁月之隔我难道是另一个？

黄昏，长长的树影投向沙丘又到了燃生炊火的时候熟识的村民扛着铁锹走在田埂上牛驮着大捆的青草像从前一样。我闪到一旁——

没有岁月之隔只有大河村，这一动不动的滔滔长河。

未完成的途中

……午夜。一行字呼啸着冲出黑暗的隧道。幽蓝的信号灯闪过。一列拖着脐带的火车穿越桥梁，枕木下我凹陷的前胸不断震颤。它紧抵俯身降落的天空，碾平，伸展——你知道，我

总是这样，摇晃着在深夜起身，喝口水坐下。信。电话线中嗡嗡的雪原。躺在键盘上被自己的双手运走。翻山越岭

从水杉的尖顶上沉沉扫过，枝条划破饥渴的脸。或者，贴着地面冰碴挂上眉毛，你知道，有时

我走在纬四路的楝树下，提着青菜推门，仿佛看到你的背影，孩子们快乐尖叫冲过来抱着我的腿。雨从玻璃上滴落。屋子晃动起来，轮子无声地滑行拖着傍晚的炊烟。那时，市声压低了

楼下的钉鞋匠，取出含在嘴里的钉子抡起铁锤，狠狠地楔进生活的鞋底，毫不犹豫。这些拾荒的人拉着破烂的架子车，藏起捡到的分币粗大的骨节从未被摧毁。你知道，端午时节

蒿草浓烈的香气中，我们停靠的地方布谷鸟从深夜一直叫到天亮，在远处的林子里躲在树荫下面。你睫毛长长的眼睛闭着。手边是放凉的水杯和灰烬的余烟。站在窗前，我想：我爱这个世界。在那裂开的缝隙里，我有过机会。它缓缓驶来，拐了弯……

我总是这样。盯着荧屏，长久地一行字跳出黑暗。黝黝的田野。矿灯飞快地向后丘陵。水塘。夜晚从我的四肢碾过。凄凉。单调。永不绝望你知道，此时我低垂的额头亮起一颗星：端着米钵。摇动铁轮的手臂被活塞催起——火苗窜上来。一扇窗口飘着晾晒的婴儿尿布，慢慢升高了……

Four Poems

Lan Lan

Lost

A man is lost in letters. In books.Lost in the dust left by a handand chairs    after the lightsyokes of used feelingsand the shadow of a train whizzing past

He has the shape of leaves and cloudsIn his footprintsthe reflection of shapes of seasons

Sometimes, someone will accompany him    withthe seriously inflamed knee joints-walking to the suburbs near the old railwaysabove the defeated wild mugwortsto meet another him-

A man is lost in everything    that he lost.

Disappear

Disappear.Further than death, closer to a hug.I accept legacy, what you award:    silence.

Your decree, I obey.

In this transverse peace I owninstants of infinity. Stars in a vast night sky.

Your golden body is glittering, everywhere.Your golden lips. Golden!

Wheat field plants its past glorieson the roof of my fate.

Ruins of the Great River Village

Again a great river village.Crows rest on tall poplarssparrows fly over a grain-sunning groundtheir wings tinted with a golden wheat shineThey recognize me.

Some years ago a breeze still blewTimeless partitionAm I a partition?

At dusk, long tree shadows throw themselves to the dunesAgain time to raise a cooking fireFamiliar villagers carry shovels and spadesand walk in the fieldsOxen bear big bundles of grasslike before. I dodge-

a timeless partitiononly the great river village, this still andtorrential flow of water.

Unfinished Voyage

. . . Midnight. A line of words howls,dashing from a dark tunnel. A blue signal lampflashes. Train, hauling cars by an umbilical cord,crosses the bridge. Under the sleepersmy chest can't stop shaking. It resiststhe bent falling sky, flattens, and expands-You know, I

am always this way, wavering,getting up late at night, drinking water,sitting down. Mail. Snow fields hum in the phone line. Onthe keyboard my hands travel over mountains and valleys.

As I sweep past the tops of redwoods, branchesscratch my hungry face, or perhaps, close to the groundice crystals emerge and hang on my eyebrows. You know, sometimes

I walk under japonicas along Weisi Road, carrying vegetables,pushing open the door. I seem to see you from behind, children shriek happilyrushing to hug my legs. Rain dripsfrom the windowpane.The house shakes, wheels glide past without a sound,hauling evening kitchen smoke. City noise falls.

Downstairs, a cobbler takes a nail from his mouthand wields a hammer, driving it violently into the sole of life, withouthesitation. These rag-and-bone menpull broken carts, hide any coins they find,their thick joints barely worn out. You know, at Dragon Boat Festival

in thick fragrance of wormwood, we stop wherecuckoos call from night till daybreak, lying in the shadein a distant forest. Your long eyelashesclose. A cup turning cold at hand and the last smoke from ashes.    Before the window,I'm thinking: I love this world. There,a fissure opens, my chance is here.It turns toward me slowly, around the curve . . .I am always this way. Staring forever at the screen.A line of words jumps out of the dark. Black fields. A miner's lamp flies backward.Hills. Ponds. Night runs over my limbs.Desolation. Monotony. Never despair.You know, at this instant, my head lowered, a star shineson my brow. I carry a rice bowl. Arms moving iron wheelsare driven by the piston-flames gush forth. By a windowdrying diapers flutter, and slowly rise . . .