Mile marker 48, too much blood. It’s a gift, Sam says. What, arterial spray? Christmas, your brother says, and still right-- Here: Wipe his face. Wipe her dash. Drive into the night. * Exit 21A. Eggnog coffee, awful. Sam’s quiet mouth. Tree lashed to sedan; little kid, “Anarchy in the Pre-K” onesie. Baby icicle-shines. Bang it out, Sid Vicious, secret prayer. Crank it down. Head south. * Smooth sailing, fresh weather. Shake out the shoulders. Shake out the Sammy, sleepy. Home for the holiday cheer, Baby; wrap up your brother lean on each other, thousands of miles and thousands of years.