Love of Lines: Notes for an Apprentice Shingler
　　Sara London
　　The injuries are small ones,
　　the blade（葉片，刀片） slips from the cedar（雪松）
　　slat to the kneeling knee,
　　or the plane slides
　　off the shingle's edge
　　and shaves the thumb knuckle（關(guān)節(jié)） .
　　Splinters（碎片） are surprisingly
　　rare, but when the hands
　　are cold, the hammer glances
　　the galvanized（鍍鋅的，電鍍的） nail
　　and slams the horny（角狀的） one,
　　pinching（箍緊，收縮） and blistering
　　the pellicle（薄膜，薄皮） . This
　　is the worst.
　　What we labor over,
　　a swayback（背部下凹的） beach house,
　　rests on a rheumatic（風(fēng)濕病的） wharf,
　　our task to pluck
　　the worn wood scales,
　　add new bridgework, a shield
　　of George Washington teeth,
　　clamped against adversity（逆境，不幸） .
　　We begin with the shingle（墻面板，木瓦） iron
　　slipping it along the virgin
　　backside of loose dentures（假牙） ,
　　and pull so shakes fly off
　　in our faces, crack and splinter,
　　the sharp dry notes narrating
　　fifteen-plus years of weather.
　　Like dog years, this is ancient
　　beyond thinning and brittleness.
　　Where we find rot, we chisel（雕，刻） out
　　the grainy porridge（粥，糊） and fill
　　the gap with new pine,
　　thick wedges（楔形） for warmth.
　　Wood chips in our eyes
　　make us cry a little,
　　but mostly we keep right on
　　through the small disasters
　　to batten down before nightfall,
　　our eye on the suture—
　　horizon stitching（縫合，固定） low
　　grey sky to our dark Atlantic.
　　Tar paper (or a new slick
　　synthetic stock that doesn't rip
　　and bears a name too New Age
　　for song) is whack-stapled
　　to weary ship-salvage boards,
　　top layer always over bottom
　　to keep rain water from seeping
　　back to wood. Then the sweet
　　new cedar shields we extract
　　from fresh bundles and fit,
　　side flush to side
　　and hammer in twice, milk
　　oozing from flat four-penny
　　heads, the soft white fur
　　of mold, like premature infant
　　fuzz, rising from wet wood
　　into the crisp autumn
　　turn of air.
　　Chalk lines are best
　　when workers hold each end,
　　one reaching to the center
　　to snap, the blue powder
　　mapping a million points
　　along a line so straight
　　the day's doubts are deleted
　　in its sure direction.
　　But a course of shingles
　　followed by another and another
　　parading up the house—these
　　hands saluting, soles of tree,
　　puerile（幼稚的，天真的） soldiers sweet
　　as puberty（青春期，開花期） , pressed side to side
　　so no one stands taller,
　　though some are fatter,
　　"hippos," and some are "weasel"-
　　thin, their bodies set
　　like brickwork so no two seams
　　meet—all the bathos of the week
　　is buried here. Lines
　　link lines to what we love
　　in these long hours, the wood
　　wine of it, the weighted plunge（投入，跳進(jìn)）
　　and smack of hammer and nail,
　　the hard grip, hammer handle
　　to palm, the knock knock knock
　　answering back from neighboring
　　houses and street, wood and nail
　　and wood, even the smeared（弄臟的） blood
　　marking the rough facade.
　　We swing and drum the day.
　　And when we finish, the lines,
　　stacks of horizons, paths to
　　an exacting place, meeting at trim
　　and window, foundation and roof,
　　are what we've made. Lines
　　where cold, rain, wind,
　　sleet, sun and snow end. Lines
　　we step across the street
　　to judge, and when they're fine
　　they're fine, and when they fail
　　they haunt. Order is easy to
　　plan for, hard to achieve. This
　　is what houses are about—
　　planes that meet along degrees
　　we trust. Lines that say,
　　The weather is up to you.
　　We unfasten our nail aprons（圍裙，皮圈）
　　as the sun sends its light
　　into China's day. Toss
　　into the toolbox tape measure,
　　plane and knife,
　　hammer, chalkline and coping
　　saw, and head home to husband
　　or girlfriend or dog, or house—
　　house, bless it, though it
　　doesn't save us from ourselves.
　　And when we sleep, it is
　　the sleep of lines well made,
　　or lines that are not well,
　　marginally mis-measured,
　　but in our dreams slanting（傾斜的）
　　earthward or rising toward
　　some inevitable convergence,
　　the confusion of infinite touch.