A blurry photograph by Martha Ronk The tree azalea overwhelms the evening with its scent, defining everything and the endless fields. Walking away, suddenly, it slices off and is gone. The visible object blurs open in front of you, the outline of a branch folds back into itself, then clarifies--just as you turn away-- and the glass hardens into glass as you go about taking care of things abstractedly one thing shelved after another, as if they were already in the past, needing nothing from you until, smashing itself on the tile floor, the present cracks open the aftermath of itself. Copyright © 2013 by Martha Ronk. Used with permission of the author.
Posted on: Tue, 09 Jul 2013 11:11:27 +0000
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