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.