Spring 2011 • Vol. XXXIII No. 2 Poetry |

certain movements

—in the decomposition of an apple's pomace matting the seeds at its core against the grass and frost—it's not the surface wisp hissing the stillness deer stir crossing the snow over an open field through flurries that disturb the bruise of scent the apple casts on the exposure as it too passes across the field—a failing trace   of pheromone scattering its loss into the clarity of night     —it isn't the lure it is that gives or takes—reliant on the other exciting for the moment the ferment in the ground between     —in the fertility of their gestation—ripening in the oblivion that surrounds the need to browse and to be browsed —eat and be eaten each to their consummation—it's instead an ecstasy of accidents gathering the sentience of the dead of winter to the temperatures of their identity—acclimating   the random certainty of routine movements to the squalls at dawn 

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Roger Desy works a small body of poems until they work themselves. While we’re born and will die on this planet, our relation to it is intimate. He taught literature and creative writing, edited technical manuals, helped set up a neglected one-room schoolhouse as a venue for readings/music/community programs, raised a family that now raises itself, and “learned cat” from the sweetest tabby that ever adopted one of our kind. A few poems are in Cider Press Review, Kenyon Review, Mid-American Review, Midwest Quarterly, Poet Lore, and South Carolina Review.

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I-80

By Roger Desy

—in the decomposition of an apple's pomace matting the seeds at its core against the grass and frost—it's not the surface wisp hissing the stillness deer stir crossing the snow […]

Winter Apples

By Roger Desy

—in the decomposition of an apple's pomace matting the seeds at its core against the grass and frost—it's not the surface wisp hissing the stillness deer stir crossing the snow […]

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