he dreamed there were two,
one here and one there
and he escaped that way,
slipping through the sutures of the skull,
leaving a ghost to steer his crooked ship
and pay homage to the clock
and fix the car
and seal the leaks
and make sure she still had plenty.
he dreamed they shook it all out, him and her
and it was carried by a breeze soft and cool as fog
but he was gone by then
his words holy, etched in bone, rattling the incus
with the miles flying underneath
and the tires holding
and the desert a lonely heaven.