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.