by Henry Rappaport

1
Rosie says
the bush is December
thinks three weeks freeze got it
is flip and sad at the half masts.

Meanwhile, the sun knocks its head
on the year’s first bee.

                                                                          What am I sure of?

That everything I want
            is on the table
                        in the empty glass?

2
The man is sad
who is writing about sadness
whose graveyard
is the woman he loved
who hung November from a tree
discovered March
and broke his heart.

He fell like true dirt
packed a bag
and found a white cat
to nap on his lap.

3

One good Friday,
John Donne and I
dragged our asses out of April
to the library of downtown Syracuse.
He felt half giddy and half sad in the turnaround
asked if I would promise to remember.
Now every spring he blows it
and I remember
Syracuse.

4

            Is the world
               friend
to circumstance
   that smiles at the window
            as if it sees through to itself
              and does it
   adore
when sleep comes
                the mortal enemy?

5

            I listened to the woman on t.v.
say I’ll be right back.
  I waited and I heard her sing

nothing
the old wisdom says
lasts forever

                                                                                  not emptiness
not an empty glass
                                                                not even a sugarless bush
                                                                    into which sugars flow.

by Henry Rappaport

1.
The man with no legs
looks at a map
of the night,
looks and wonders
where he can go.

He closes his eyes
and looks at a map
he cannot see
in a chair without wheels.

He thinks his nowhere
is everywhere.
He wonders what
he can love.

2.
The man with one arm
draws a map
for the man with one eye.
The man with one ear overhears.
The man with one leg
stands in front of the club
where the man with one mouth,
one nose, one tongue
waits for them.

He toasts their good health
and sups them well.

by Larry Dyhrberg

There comes a moment
In the life of Cherries,
After the bright red,
After the darkening
And swelling into succulence,
The mouth – filling explosion,
De l’heure des cerises,
When the unseen bruise
Cracks the sweet skin
And traces of mold
Whisper   fickle   truth.

by Lynn Levin

Loving the hard – to – love,
I sought your human feet.
At the Chinese grocery you lay
in a bin pond – mucked
like dredged – up shoes.
Few shoppers choosing
you for their red baskets.

I washed you, peeled off
your brown socks
cut through the nowhere tunnels
of your nowhere escape routes.
Cut more.  Found more nothing.
Your slices — all those holes —
covered the butcher block
like CAT scans of forgetfulness.

On the tongue, not much to brag about —
you tasted like jicama, raw potato.
But braised with sugar
and rice wine vinegar
you turned softer, more picklish.
No longer your old self
I liked you better.