Jeremiah Crotser.

The First Fire of the Season

An apple

does not have the requisite sensuousness

to have been the fruit that tempted Eve, fooled Adam

and made a mess of things thereafter.

Likewise, a lonely man doesn’t stand at the edge of the ocean with his pants hiked up

contemplating his whole life as a series of missed opportunities in amour and figure it in metaphor as

an apple he’ll never bite into.

But let it never be said that an apple doesn’t have a charm of its own.

For no other fruit echoes a season in the senses like an apple echoes the fall.

Taste it in the most tropical of climes at the peak of summer’s heat

and you might as well be stepping down from a hayride,

the snap of first frost around the corner,

the crunch of red leaves under your feet and

the smell of summer’s best wood coming out of a chimney that’s been waiting all year for

the first fire of the season.


Long Shot Love

Pushing the limits of the long shot–

That is my day, that is my race;

The last horse to qualify

On the last turn

In the last place.

That is why you love me;

You for whom self-deprecation

Can only be an aphrodisiac if it’s at least half-true,

And for whom last place is first

In her heart.



Not to catch but to know the mystery

of the green


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