Bolaño

Are you the poet

who chose his path at sixteen

and let the blue

lines lie across his canvas

for spiders to nest?

I can always say

with certainty: Yes, I am

with skink skitters

littered in crumpled clumps,

of unlit corners

in my studio apartment.

This path didn't

choose me, no art ever does.

And don't trust

a liar, pedaling himself

In theatrical form.

-[m]