The Spaniards

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 

 produces a shock, as does a sardine tin 

 & 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 

 except for her cyclopean hips, which are true 

 & 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.