Surely, it's over Sr. Bolano

Surely, it's over Sr. Bolaño
since you're dead
and the numbers of letters
in the streets of Mexico City
can't say -
"this is about my liver, you fucker!"
or my Spain -
that never was
in five years of chill that's
going to crack my spine under this mud
and all the ghosts of the Andes
marching lockstep in my dreams:
those two poor Allendes in Ciudad Juárez
will they run to the Yankee border when
The Savage Detectives come after them?
but surely, this is not the dream
you'd wake up to find
that you can't sit up straight anymore
and it's been five years now
since you're dead -