A humid winter, rain on rain. From the dark
house Zeppelin I repeats on blown speakers,
ice blending too fast with the whiskey
in whorls like heat haze, dad’s heavy
spool-top table rocking on new legs.
The plank-ends of this sodden porch
begin to curl, pulling out their nails.
I’ll swap in new boards next summer,
as every atom in me will change.
I ebb into this small town, a narrow
cracking patch of lawn, the rotten
shed following the rain down
like Plant’s voice follows Page,
like I followed you here.
A redbird on the buckled
fence even sings along,
wind, wings and light, this
old alchemy in the trees.
Nothing I can create
or destroy. World
and word. Same
as it ever was.