I now remember why

Your baby was bawling
at the sunrise

sitting in a 
bubble frame of time

it was over Bryn
who died

and the sound of laughter 
from the inside jokes
we were going to make 
at the wake

He had fixed 
his father’s Ford 500

He had made 
so much trouble
for his mother

the Great American oils
and bled giant puddles
for the country in his 
water-colored eyes

the one
with golden ears 
the Great American toils

in a time 
that was golden

When every hour
awake was a new life

and it was an honor for
any man to lose sleep 
on behalf of his
batshit son

the one that said he
would bat the breeze
and shoot the shit until
the stars disappeared,
the sun rose,
the willow forgave,
remembered in its rings
the tones of voice
taken on


because we are so