Winter 2021
In other words, beachfronts like Bolaño’s and mine are Nowhere.
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He’s clear about his wishes: to die in this house, in his own bed.
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He drowned under a different name, a fake name chiseled in German.
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Her songs, her records—I entered them. I jumped in and out of myself.
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Oh, won’t you lie here darling whistlepigs, here, curled at my side?
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All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”
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The dead and alive who we will never see again but in dream or memory.
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