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The Spaniards
L. S. Klatt
Absent-minded & unapproachable, I walk
in the tilled field. I am not, in fact, here;
I am only anticipating the Catalan farm
& a lane of carob trees. A butterfly wing
& the unattainable sea that is at eye-level.
I listen for the dialogue of insects
& the whimper of a rabbit that is held
by the ears by a peasant woman. She is nude
& false the way the bone of the moon is not yet
blue, not yet superlative. What makes the scene
real is the mule-drawn cart that disappears
in a cloud of dust, just as turpentine
erases forkfuls of sunshine from my mouth.
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