The Loaming

Behind the grumpy
Powder-blue rototiller,
Interned in dust and

Shriven by the bloody
Stations of Essex county biting flies
Across my shins,

Hangdog to its blistering
Handles, I level bone-jigging,
Snarling progress against

The fastness of buried roots,
Wheedled stones and
Disobedient hedgerows,

Working the lines at Bothways Farms,
A wind-whipped acreage running away
With the declining light.

Here turned up loam ensconces
Me, black with fertility, a touch,
A labor bordering on

The verbal, in a rot-
Pungent atmosphere both
Suggestive and inarticulate,

Where I can sweatily
Follow through the mental
Seed-death in these trenches

That will raise me up another season,
Baskets heavy with a harvest of words
Equal to the speechless.

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This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , by A. Miller. Bookmark the permalink.

About A. Miller

ALEX MILLER JR. is a staff writer for The Curator and the co-author of A Bow From My Shadow, a collection of poems written in dialogue with Luke Irwin. His essays and poems have appeared in The Conversation, Transpositions, Pif, The Curator, The Denver Syntax, Lake Effect, and ken*again. He is an adjunct professor of Western literature at Gordon College in Wenham, Mass., and high school English and Rhetoric teacher. He lives in Beverly, Mass. You can follow him on Twitter: @miller_jr.

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