By Tom Zimmerman

We drank four fingers’ width of Idaho
potato vodka, wolfed a hamburger,
slugged beer below the Tetons. Horses begged
like dogs for French fries, mom and daughter, brown
as burning earth and melting with the flow
of images, kaleidoscopic blur
before/behind our eyes. Half-drunk, we legged
it up a switchback on a cliff-face, down
a canyon. Rainbow falls, wildflowers, pines:
each axis vertical, so we could glide
to paradise or slide to hell, the roof
of which we walked in Yellowstone, with lines
of pilgrims, faithfully, to see a fried
white angel flee the earth, redemption’s proof.

Thomas Zimmerman teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Among his several poetry chapbooks are In Stereo (Camel Saloon, 2012) and From Green to Blue and Back (Zetataurus, 2016). Visit Tom's website,

Featured image courtesy of the author.

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