Divagating about Bahía, a damper draped in cloudiness and disappearance, Manning's dialogue with Fierro marched off over the bridge to San Vicente wedged between a centaur and a moto. No one will ever see it again. Or will they?

Quizzing through the three halls of an afternoon, I found Dorothea's olive carpet inside her trailer on Drake Road where in 1979 I learned to peel the paper from the chocolate of my popsicles, a poem on legal paper about the life of a little mouse that Barbara typed up illustrious before my birth and folded into rhyme without any eyes ever seeing it, and a 2011 message from Fierro about a poem handmade on Parra's paper with a dedication that follows him unforgettably. Dorothea left when she was seventy-seven and Barbara was fifty-eight. Fierro tells me Nicanor Parra is ninety-six, and still drives.

And now where? Where ire stagnates trembling, like remembering Ida alone remembering Bergamín; like Manning alone remembering Ida and Fierro, remembering me.