This is the theft:
not light,
but the place
the gaze would rest.
The trunks at the margins
still know their name.
The leaves still move
in the wind.
But the center blurs—
not darkness,
only absence
where certainty
used to live.
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Author: Renee Newlon
I am a Turkish American writer and photographer. I work in short-form prose, poetic fragments, and photography. I don’t photograph the event; I photograph the moment after the event. A few things that stay with me: Plato’s Cave, Oberg’s Culture Shock, and Beethoven’s Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever ours. My greatest teacher was my college philosophy professor, Sister Jane Sullivan, who taught me how to think and how to see.
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