Dice

Not insidious, and not yet binomial, the squeeze in the doorway is looping over your cortex, plural, cortices.
Brain in frozen mode.
These Zombies are waiting in line, a freezing line in the Frozen north somewhere, near a road.
They have addresses for you, numbers from old girlfriends.
The news says little fingers spread disease, diseases spread on fingers, touching samples,
I remember samples of things you left me in your touch.
Little drug. The Zombies are waiting for the bus in the cold. There’s a road and some snow. Headlights appear. The bus pulls to a stop.
Tapping on the glass. Your uncoiling fear. The freeing finger. Now you have two names:
The Waiting You
And
The You Which Is Addressed.