Oxidized

The spigot handle turned to sand

the second I touched the metal.

November’s rot finally finished

eating the iron from the inside out.

It’s the same white crust I found

in the belly of the Maglite—

a dry, chemical salt that burns

if you get it in a hangnail.

The radio on the workbench is dead too.

The copper wire has sprouted

a bright turquoise bloom,

a fur of poison where the music

used to have a way through.