Relapse

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Full-on, full-out,
full tilt- leaning into it
like sudden snow skid.
 
Bottle fountains at mouth
held open as a chicks beak.
Chaser mating with carpet-
should write her a trilogy on sorry-
I swore my phone was
right next to me.
 
Awake to the flashbang of
       table-corner-meets-crown.
My hair gutters blood
into basin of palm. 
I finger-painted red
last night, didn’t I?
Torn-in-half canvas,
might’ve been a finch. 
Yes! a sort of red-
        but wet pain,
        such howling.
Dizzy as a roundabout.
Middling woke and faint
and color.
 
I can’t perish standing up.
So I do,
           geyser and all.
There are no wolves here.
Even injured deer survive
car accidents sometimes. 

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