Roberto Bolano

The Nurses (Las Enfermeras)



A trail of nurses start heading home.  Protected
by my sunglasses I watch them come and go.
They're protected by the sunset.
A trail of nurses and a trail of scorpions.
Come and go.
At six in the evening? At eight
in the evening?
Sometimes one lifts a hand and waves to me.  Then reaches
her car, without turning back, and disappears,
protected by the sunset as I am by my sunglasses.
Between both vulnerabilities sits Poe's urn.
The bottomless vase holding all sunsets,
all dark lenses, all
hospitales.



trns. by Laura Healy 

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