We wish, just a bit, for the curve in the mountain highway,
the falling beam, the knife slipped in under the sheet.
Our little death dream, humming, hands in its pockets,
toes scuffling the gravel road in the middle of night
where we wish we could lie down under the Mississippi
moon and feel the river flow right over. Don’t you think
it’s the best—the whirlpool, the cradle of shadows
on the hottest day and you so parched you could die?