Jan/Feb 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 1 Poetry |

Winter Apples

—common as they are—apples are a strange fruit—bagged by the pound—in baskets mixed with citrus under cellophane or one by one displayed under a veneer of wax over the white trace of a retardant dust—albeit washed by a continual beaded mist's fluorescence of refrigerated light—so to exaggerate their blush   and advertise a nourishment seduced to self-indulgence   —the humility of their nature is taken advantage of every which way to move a produce through the economy   —but it's not so much how they're handled — fertilized and nursed through frosts—pruned—sprayed—picked—crated and shipped   from the orchard through the distribution to the table   —every last one of them no matter what their shelf life—a life of its own one way or other without exception will be consumed to the core within the winter of the autumn they were grown

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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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—common as they are—apples are a strange fruit—bagged by the pound—in baskets mixed with citrus under cellophane or one by one displayed under a veneer of wax over the white […]

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By Roger Desy

—common as they are—apples are a strange fruit—bagged by the pound—in baskets mixed with citrus under cellophane or one by one displayed under a veneer of wax over the white […]

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