Traveling Through the Dark

dead on the edge of the Wilson River street.

It is generally best to fold them into the gorge:

that street is tight; to swerve may make all the more dead.

By sparkle of the tail-light I staggered back of the vehicle

what's more, remained by the pile, a doe, an ongoing murdering;

she had solidified as of now, practically cold.

I hauled her off; she was vast in the paunch.

My fingers contacting her side presented to me the reason–

her side was warm; her grovel lay there pausing,

alive, still, never to be conceived.

Close to that mountain street I delayed.

The vehicle pointed ahead its brought down leaving lights;

in the engine murmured the enduring motor.

I remained in the glare of the warm fumes turning red;

around our gathering I could hear the wild tune in.

I considered every option for us all– my just swerving–

at that point pushed her over the edge into the waterway.