Kay L. Cook

Something is happening, as promises dislodge from our mourning constitution   where lines have been crossed and signed and torn at the perforation   where normal was color-coded without consent. Back to normal is in constant change, tired from breathing          under pressure. Where will I put my knick-knack normal which I now fit neatly in photos and boxes and plastic bins,   as I wake up in this never back to normal? Will I ever again clink glasses filled with ice   floes melting, time-lapsing,   sans metronome, Earth rotating with axis ajar throbbing off key? Will different always mean violence?   Will never again ever be enough?