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A quarterly international literary journal


/ Poetry /

We creep slowly outside

hands full of apples beyond

crispness - a venture for good

we see as salvation.

She chews on her tongue

as she watches our fruit

disappear into this long cold winter.

She doesn’t budge from the earth.

She rests in the woods

behind our home - belly

pressing down the world

and last fall’s leaves.

She seems to calmly sink into

what surrounds her - tough red

squirrels chasing the greys

crows slipping and hopping

on crusts of unfolded forest.

We turn inside and lock the door

against the smell of rotting fruit.


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