Nick Drake The first time, driving through green Ohio woods, Likely high, my cousin at the wheel. Those were the days of CDs In big black binders with torn plastic sleeves, When one winced to tilt one’s favorites To the light to see how scratched they were, When to listen to an album too much could cause it harm. When, leaning forward between the front seats, I asked, “Who is this?” his girlfriend turned And told me his name.