At dusk we found holes in the road and looked through. We found nests. Empty spaces gaped awake inside us. The woods appeared peppered with mouths that spoke light. The creek gave birth to its trees. We looked into the moving empty, the snowy summer doorways, a church spinning its black hole in the last hour. We stomped our fire too late, Made of Ashes walked the woods and heard each leaf’s omen. Older Brother said, We will suffer because of a Thought-Eating Man. He couldn’t say how. Unreasonable light built up inside me, I was an incomplete child. A death-white shoulder. I was called into the hills to stay lucky. Who was finding who, and with what? A history book, a record player, an elbow. The creek and the fire let our thoughts inhabit them. There was something to say but maybe it was saying us. I cleared my throat: Are we in the father’s dream? Another hole opened in the road or we had just come through it.