Relapse
|
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. |