The summer I learned Albeniz,

I practiced three hours a day
until I thought I imagined church
bells prismed over the city.

Donkeys in the square,
carts bumping over cobblestones.
Dust rising everywhere

as though an animal with dark
hooves stomped through the plaza
and into our yards

where in the mornings, our mothers
clipped damp ivory sheets in a line
with wooden clothespins.


In response to Via Negativa: Stuck.

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