Listening to Townes Van Zandt

We are of one mind and too much has not been said about all the quiet afternoons childhood offered us, lit gray like a cat, or blue, and cursed with an early moon. When father wore an apron or crept like a bear, we screamed. Nothing is so gone. Where is his record player or the channel that forked a distant year toward us, kind, slow magnet? There was a song we shared without your listening, you widowed soul crawling away on your elbows. I sing it to my child, with a full hand I flick its rapeseeds everywhere, clear, and slow, with all the sincerity its author indeed felt in his ten-gallon hat and his thin, whisky-soaked shirt.