I’ll be damned if I can adequately express what it’s really about, but I never really shook the insinuated poetry of Abbas Kiarostami’s most recent feature. Casting Behzad Dourani as a filmmaker — and thus Kiarostami surrogate — bound and determined to violate the sanctity of a tiny village’s death ritual, the director examines his own relationship with the non-professionals whom he photographs. The film derives its title from a softly erotic poem by Foroogh Farrokhzaad, which is recited by Dourani in a darkened cellar to a young woman who is milking a cow for him. (You can imagine the symbolism.) Kiarostami’s greatest achievement here may be the documentary-style recreation of the village (and the nearby hillside to which he must hurry in order to take cell phone calls) in such geographic detail that, walking out of the theater, you feel you’ve actually spent some time there. Otherwise, the film is merely gorgeous, strikingly observed, and, against the odds, really quite funny.