This inner rind is more than a third
place—is the mystery loosened
from its virtual frame. A peaches

crate is just a wooden crate
with spin. The revolutions
per minute for this plane

hum and whir—a fan

for unfurling home’s measures
in one simple night.

Long Player

Cover the Murmur
railroad trestle in snow, it is still

going to be there. Look up
my sleeves—nothing

hidden but a dusting
of time on my forearm,

a ring of vinyl never played
around my wrist. That I like the old

photographs printed and mounted
over song is a symptom

not the disease, and one
of the best ones I’ve got.