You sprint to nowhere.

I fall up your weaves

to a place we have been

hundreds of times.

Your post-midnight blue hair

shimmers in the blizzard.

I cloak back

to where I died,

escaped,

was sanctioned, and sectioned.

The four-storey four-century house

dazzles in the storm

like that brown box smile's

fever dream.

You are the doctor

I need, possessing everything 

except any sense

of direction.

Does it matter that you'd kept me waiting

inside the world's smallest waiting room,

then outside the world's

smallest waiting room?

All day long,

I explain in atrocious French

that I'm having a bad reaction.

Tremors do not travel.

Stuck in a snow globe

shaken and sheened with salt

Not snow. Pac-Man trapped

in one screen, force-fed

power pills.

You do not rescue.

You make me wait

eleven more hours,

threaten to keep me

in. But you deliver

Temesta. The best, yeah!

And tell me not to take it

until the morning after the drive home.

I don't, so I don't kill a broken fox

pulling one paw in front of the other

on the route de Genève.

The next morning

I take it. Embrace it.

I smear myself all down

the curve of the parking lot.

Shards jag red.

Paint.

This time.