A golden fishing line hair strand hovers over his forehead, 
and I remember that he has a super-strand, 
a super quick-growing super-strand that sprouts from his forehead
and almost reaches my red tie dye whorled mask.

I will him to open his eyes; he does. 
He is facing towards light; his pupils don’t engorge at the sight of me. 
I must be a partial silhouette. 

He closes his eyes,
sleeps under earth-dyed skies at many miles per hour.
I’m holding his head so he doesn’t collide 
skull to seatbelt buckle
let my brother do the same thing,
tender heads deserve protection and warmth.

I look through the porthole
and sigh out what is not meant to be mine;
there are mountains that don’t meet 
man where he intended science to 
break for us.
I shift ever so gently in my seat,
and ask God which mirage is real.