Thermodynamic Meditation


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.

T. J. McLemore lives and teaches in Fort Worth, Texas. His poems and interviews have appeared in Crazyhorse, Michigan Quarterly Review, Massachusetts Review, Prairie Schooner, Poetry Daily, and elsewhere.