At the rise of the moon
bells fade out
and impassable paths
—Frederico Garcia Lorca, The Moon Appears
The dark village sits on the crooked hill.
There is a plot of impassable paths towards it,
impassable paths overcome with bees, the stigma that bees bring.
There is a bottle neck at the base of the hive.
There is an impassable knowledge that your eyebrows bring, beside the poor library,
the wicket-man, there's a man who sells peacock feathers on the roundabout,
they scream all night from where they are plucked.
The village is slanted, full of tragedies with slate.
I am walking towards a level crossing, while someone I love is jogging into the darkness.
Come away from there—I am yelling,
while the black dog rolls in the twilit yard.
Small white socks bob into the night like teeth in the mouth of a laughing man
who walks backwards into darkness, throwing drinks into the air,
like a superstitious wife throws salt; we all have our share of certainties.
The glass and salt my petulant daughter,
The glass and salt my crooked pathway; impassable glass and salt.