Monday, June 27, 2011


Horizon haze.
Dead Dad and Mom
                        out there beyond.
I’m ankle-deep in tilled soil—
                                    soiled, as I should be.
Such living.
Such a strand of nows.
                        Pearls, emeralds, diamonds,
            pebbles, clods, feces—
                                    Doesn’t really matter.
Some of the earth packed so hard
                                                that water runs off,
            wind skids by,
                        fire won’t bite.
I like my earth
                        tilled and breathing,
            despite the worms,
                                    the mess,
                        the tracking in.

About Thomas Zimmerman:
Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits three literary magazines at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, MI. Poems of his have appeared recently in Yellow Mama, The Flea, and Inkspill Magazine.

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