in memory of tim

there’s a wide grin
hiding under an eye watering stream
going through changes
and every time the tide shifts
the moon blinks.
something holds the seasons.
something always breaks away.
it‘s when we’re dealing with the dust,
swirling after the last song,
that we stumble around
messing with the fog.

I got up this morning
and drove into garlands of rain
there was a road
that ate it’s own tail
and at one point
i talked to peter jennings.
my dodge was a rare beast
and sang old christmas songs
from the backseat.
we tooled beside the lake
and took that sad old grey
all the way home.