The city’s neon embersstripe the asphalt’s blank pagewhere this story pens itself nightly;where ghosts weave their oily hairinto his belt of ice,dress him in pleated shadowsand lay him fetalon the icy concrete—the afterbirth of sirens glistening over him.We drain our headlightson his scraped foreheadand watch the December moontwo-step across his waxen eyes;his mouth’s shallow pond—        a reflecting pool        where his sobs leak into my collar.One more, just one more, he whispers,as he thaws back into the shape of nihitstilíbruised knees thorning against his chest.We steal away,our wheels moanthrough sleet and ash.Death places second, third,and fourth behind us.At home on the Reservation:Father sifts dried cedar leavesover glowing embers,Mother, hoveringabove cellphone light, awaits:                    He’s okay,                    never went out,                    watched a movie instead.But tonight,my speech has knivesthat quiver at the ellipsesof neon Budweiser signsblinking through the fogged windshield,and I text:            I’ve only rescued a sliver of him,            he’s only twenty-five            and he smells like blood and piss,            his turquoise bracelet snatched for pawn,            by the same ghost who traded his jacket            for a robe of snow and ice,            before inviting him            back into the Caravan                        for one more, just one more.