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poet

Grace Schulman

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poem
Rain hazes a street cart's green umbrella
but not its apples, heaped in paper cartons,
dry under cling film. The apple man,

who shirrs his mouth as though eating tart fruit,
exhibits four like racehorses at auction:
Blacktwig, Holland, Crimson King, Salome.

I tried one and its cold grain jolted memory:
a hill
poem
"And down and down and down,"
the toddler's mother sings 
as he clears every ledge.

Midway we cross their path.
In rain, the museum's steps 
loom like the Giant's Stairway

to Guardi's Ducal Palace. 
"And up and up and up" 
is what I do not say

as you stagger for balance. 
Once I'd scaled that summit, 
hunted