一 

盐湖结晶。非蒸发所致—— 
是时间在自我沉淀。 
你生于南十字星下，金矿区 
将人骨锻成矿石。黄昏时 
太阳熔为一枚硬币——无面值，未流通 
仍在地心深处燃烧。 

二 

dugite蛇穿行花岗岩。腹鳞 
刻写大地的人权法案——以鳞片，以疼痛 
以被碾平的月光。 
分叉的舌丈量人类的悔恨。太迟了。 
Semper tardius. 
你学会的不是理解，而是与恐惧同眠。 
恐惧是殖民者留下的床；你卧于其上 
梦见自己是原住民。 

三 

小麦带。时间不是直线 
而是麦芒刺入掌心的深度。 
丰饶与干旱在农夫掌中并行。 
从一粒种子到一首诗的距离—— 
非光年，而是种子拒绝成为麦子的 
那一秒。 

四 

你的诗行在广外榕树下光合作用。 
珀斯的阳光，被翻译成 
珠江的涟漪。 
但翻译即背叛。当“内陆”遇见“江南” 
两片大陆并不交换季风—— 
它们先沉默，然后各自下雨。 

五 

八十七岁。你是一枚被时间风化的盐晶 
每个棱面折射着不同的澳洲—— 
梦创时代。罪疚。渴望。 
还有那永远无法破译的内陆： 
它不在任何地图上，而在 
你拒绝言说之处。 

六 

未来的考古学家啊，勿挖掘我们的金属与塑料。 
寻找这些诗行——它们如古盐床般横陈 
保存着一位诗人如何以最简单的词语 
浓缩了一个大陆的悲痛与尊严。 
但盐会溶解。诗会消散。 
唯有拒绝被浓缩之物，才真正活过。 

跋 

Glen老哥，你教我：内陆之心不可抵达 
只能错过。 
此诗亦然。 

The Sutra of Salt and Bone 

For Glen Philips  

I 

Salt lakes crystallise. Not by evaporation— 

time precipitates itself. 

You were born under the Southern Cross, in goldfields 

that forge human bones into ore. 

At dusk, the sun melts into a coin— 

no denomination, never circulated, 

still burning deep in the earth’s core. 

II 

A dugite glides through granite. 

Its belly scales inscribe 

the earth’s bill of rights— 

in scales, in pain, 

in moonlight pressed flat. 

Its forked tongue measures human remorse. 

Too late. 

Semper tardius. 

You learned not understanding, 

but to sleep with fear. 

Fear is the bed left by colonizers; 

you lie upon it 

and dream yourself indigenous. 

III 

The wheat belt. 

Time is not a straight line, 

but the depth to which a wheat spike pierces the palm. 

Fertility and drought run side by side in the farmer’s hand. 

The distance from a seed to a poem— 

not light-years, 

but the single second 

when the seed refuses to become wheat. 

IV 

Your lines photosynthesise 

under Guangwai’s banyan trees. 

Sunlight from Perth 

is translated into ripples on the Pearl River. 

But translation is betrayal. 

When “the inland” meets “the Jiangnan“, 

two continents do not exchange monsoons— 

they first fall silent, 

then rain, each on its own. 

V 

Eighty-seven. 

You are a salt crystal weathered by time. 

Each facet refracts a different Australia— 

Dreamtime. Guilt. Longing. 

And the inland, never to be deciphered: 

it exists on no map, 

only where you refuse to speak. 

VI 

Archaeologists of the future, 

dig not for our metal and plastic. 

Seek these lines— 

they lie exposed like ancient salt beds, 

preserving how one poet, 

in the simplest words, 

condensed a continent’s grief and dignity. 

But salt dissolves. 

Poems fade. 

Only that which refuses to be condensed 

has truly lived. 

Postscript 

Glen, you taught me: 

the heart of the inland cannot be reached— 

only missed. 

So too, this poem.