The Rides, after C.D. Wright's "Like Something Christenberry Pictured"

If this were, in fact, the end -- when you take away with you the last leaves of autumn on the way in from Boston or even Worcester, heading off the exit ramp of the Pike -- if this really were the end,

wouldn't you want to hear bells or some annunciation? -- not like the terrible anticipation (the wait & wait & wait &) sudden drop on the amusement ride "Xtreme Fall," that, all intensities included, could substitute for a few seconds of death,

or at least death's dream (which is of life, one would imagine) -- the pushing off the high dive by an unknown yet horrifically familiar pair of hands -- and there's no fantastical music,

just a whistling -- in and out of the dream -- and the whirling you feel after is only physical dizziness, the fastest ferris wheel in New England

-- a speaker blaring corny lines ("Drop in soon, won't you?") that should be welcoming and not force you to think of the imminent dread, but that is the rubberband of adrenaline, isn't it? -- and in the end

what isn't more enjoyable than exploding inwardly in one place, widening the eyes a little and letting your heart -- despite its settling solidly, comfortably inside your throat -- breathe deep and hold it,

an underwater feeling, after all; and how glorious to touch ground and find death is not imaginary but still temporary and finally, finally

you breathe.