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Afterwards what's left out is what insists:
a swath of tall leaning flowers on the way to somewhere else,
a field lying fallow where the air quickens,

                          where a curve arches more fully because of it
and because tomorrow won't be here except as I fold the field as if it were paper
to take with me, it won't be raining, it won't be tilting its light,
it won't be full in the face.

Time always matters, as the woman said, yesterday I am ...
as if it were the present tense of a past time, the immaterial outside of the thing
but the paper isn't what it was like, isn't even what itself was like
before leaving.

                        Now the pulsing outline of some backlit shrub
insistent fingers tapping on a distant window.

Martha Ronk

Ocular Proof

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