No Harvest
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No Harvest

 James H Duncan
 James H Duncan
No Harvest
by James H Duncan  FollowFollow
James H Duncan is a New York native and the editor of Hobo Camp Review. He is currently engaged to his Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter, but more to ravenous affairs with various bottles of wine on the side. If you see him minding his own damn business at a railway platform, that's called research, so leave him be. Apt, Reed Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, and The Battered Suitcase, among others, have welcomed his poetry and short stories. More at
More work by James H Duncan:
No Harvest
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I hate the rotting of apples

and the memory stains


they leave behind the tall tufts

of Mohawk grass, the odd discoloration


they dribble along autumn

walkways and sunsets and empty


ladders leading up to the thin

weak branches, bereft of any fruit;


across the dirt road the lopsided pumpkins

grow fat off the sun and prickly green vines


flies drifting as the wind blows, the smell

of honey and mowed grass bringing on the night


the forced return to bad love and having

to deal with bad love face to face


no more apple pie nights in front of a movie

screen TV, no more ice cream smiles, no weekends


of rest, and no apples to pick

because the ladders are all broken


and now the flies drift as the night wind blows,

the scent of new honey in fields


and when the morning staggers along the dirt road

maybe this will all be like a bad dream


a hallucinatory Halloween, a fresh dawn revealing

the apple trees glowing with dew, maybe with one ladder


leaning crooked, waiting in the tall cool grass

and an Indian summer sun, maybe, but we know better



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