We drive into and through the ice line. The car a cocoon. I forgot the fog on the mountain from the night before. We had lunch in the late afternoon. We made the dancing baby work for his meals. What the rain does to pull us sleepward what the towns along the forest bend. It’s a quiet landscape and he presses the sound buttons before he grumbles toward another past he will not inherit. His name more popular now. A jump in people who share it. The river had swallowed all the houses where we sleep in the early seventies. It’s about to be the end of another decade. Whoever is celebrating their hats into a closed room. We push and don’t push ourselves to stay. We will kiss him on the hour and fall apart in the middle of some other gathering or make our wills known by candle wick and word caress. I punch the car door closed and forget to wear my torture devices. The crooked finger a feature now. The sleep consultant will hold our imaginary money and hopefully six hours will become a common count. So much of what I dwell on is and is not rest. The lion in the shakes. The mystery in the ice worn field we drive our past into. The big pretty dog scares his cousin Anna. Juniper quietly screeches and folds into her father’s chest. We decide on diner breakfast all together like we aren’t old parents. The memory of a ping pong paddle and slippery wheels in decades ago snow. He’ll hear a series of stories and not understand their consequences. Peter pecker or the cut down pot plants dried by my father in the house his cousin’s grandparents now inhabit. Main street full of ghosts and water.