What a spirit he had
when he was young.
How he had captured
everything there was
to have.
He dreamed of lives
before his time.
Was a vessel
for some ageless hero
or what they used to call
the spirit.
Lasting forever,
possessing another
life's time.
There were books
handed down
smelling of desert dryness.
Robust.
Pages made from a heavier pulp
rarely seen anymore.
He keeps it like an artifact
which really is a gateway
into himself.
Preserved over decades
specifically for the moment
and purpose for which he had it.
Where something outside the room
in him
it excited.
and his blood
and his vision
began to run in twilight blue
where it covered
the high desert valleys
and swam through its pores
into the foxes den
and expanded endlessly
past rusted cattle fences
down the main street
of a deserted town.
There seemed no horizon
in the night.
Only the rich twilight silhouette
of a plateau.
Every image like an illustration,
fragmented.
The dreams went further back
than the space age.
A perfect palette of colors
all submitting to the enigma
of twilight blue
Comfortably alone
passing through the world
at night.
Perhaps he was the ghost
all along.
And the dormant life around
was blind to him.
But he became a man
and was confirmed
to the living.
Dormant and rusty,
leaning over on its side.
A colorless cold front
bringing new feelings.
Loss
Anger
Regret
Holding onto nights
of defiance
Riding along old state roads
ingesting the narrow, circular view
of a single headlight.
