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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
produces a shock, as does a 1 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 2, 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.
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