I walked the beach when all was dark, reciting the names of the forgotten, names languishing on dusty shelves, until the sun came out again. But are they forgotten names or only names in waiting?

I dreamed that I was woken by a phone call. It was Mr. Pere, who wanted me to come—he offered to take me—to the Guardia Civil headquarters; they had a body there and they were hoping that I could identify it.

Today, for the first time, we woke up to gray skies. From our window, the beach looked majestic and empty. A few children were playing in the sand, but soon it began to rain and one by one they disappeared.

By the time of his death in 2003, at age fifty, Roberto Bolaño was already a somewhat legendary figure. A Chilean who spent most of his life in poverty and exile, Bolaño helped found the Infrarealist poetry movement in Mexico City. Later, he settled in the town of Blanes, on Spain’s Costa Brava.

Two poets 20 and 23 years old, 
Naked in bed with the shades drawn
Intertwine themselves, suck nipples and

When Lisa told me she’d made love
to someone else, in that old Tepeyac warehouse
phone booth, I thought my world

The memory of Lisa descends again
through night’s hole. 
A rope, a beam of light

My gift to you will be an abyss, she said, 
but it will be so subtle you’ll perceive it
only after many years have passed

At three A.M. we passed
through the Great Pit
and our boat, which had always been creaky
withdrew instantly