Lewis Warsh's poem treats thinking as something physical and unruly, almost a living thing that wakes you at night, bends you backwards, and has to be played out before it will die. The speaker seems restless and half-amused by this. A late-night cigarette, a dream of saints lighting big cigars, and a man tipping over in his chair and breaking vertebrae all give the poem a comic, slightly wild tone, even as it deals with guilt, betrayal, and revenge.
Underneath the jokes there's a real unease. Bad thoughts about people who hurt you, the speaker suggests, are a sign you still love them, and lying to yourself about it only invites it to come back at you. Toward the end the poem asks what a death even is except the thoughts you have while dying. It settles on a quieter hope: the best thoughts are serene, ask for no position, and simply flow on "like a caress." The mood moves from jittery and anxious to calm.