Two owls with awls for eyes
look through the leather dark.
Wise, we say. And so they are,
shrewd masters of their barn,
great misers of the moon,
who, having snatched that dime
worn dim midway its arc,
have magnified their vision.
With faces scooped to spoon
secrets the barn has held
noon until now, has felt
like a heart its clot of rubies,
they watch what’s hidden squeeze
to spill; every twilight
they kill, as angels might.
Back, back a moment, whispers
behind old boards forget,
emerge, confess an urge
before and after plunging
wings. The whole of things
a cunning, craving scroll
that blood sun, full sun, sun
rolling its ballpoint thin
across, cannot read truly,
two owls scan, innerstand,
who spend their wisdom swiftly
and swivel in their square
of darkness, knowing it.
两只猫头鹰，眼似尖锥，
透过如皮革般的黑暗凝视。
我们称它们为智慧，于是它们如此，
谷仓的精明守护者，
月光的守财奴，
那轮弯弧的硬币在中途失色，
被它们夺走，
使视界愈发清晰。
它们的脸如勺子般挖掘出
谷仓自正午以来深藏的秘密，
仿佛心脏凝聚了血红的宝石，
它们注视着隐藏的秘密挤压而出；
每当黄昏，它们如天使般猎杀。
一瞬的退却，旧木板后传来低语，
被遗忘的声音浮现，
在展翅之前和之后的刹那悔悟。
万物如同一卷狡黠而渴求的卷轴，
那血色的夕阳，饱满的太阳，
在细如笔尖的轨迹上滚动，
却永远无法真正读懂它，
两只猫头鹰巡视，洞彻一切，
迅速挥霍它们的智慧，
在黑暗的方框中旋转，
了然其中的奥秘。