Things revert, but to nearly normal. You’ll never
catch up now to who took off-&-away with by-your-
leave of your senses. Then that concensus-taker
herself took such unconscionable advantage.
Everything I thought of today, you turned it around. My sweetest
reasonabilities, exhausted, slid down behind the register
after a flutter of void votes depositing the opposition.
Next thing I suppose you’ll know; not this one, though.
Often, when something untoward happens, next
may wriggle something froward through: an imp. As we
let-go to follow fellow nonjudgmental patients off
our rickety rockers, chef stirs & curdles the very fluent word-
slurry I in my modesty once slipped a rumor to. Advocate, dream-
team champion, I hear it deconstruct from among my museum
qualities (fictive & fractal) its own encroaching cranks
of logic, blessing us bedridden invalids into disguise
This poem originally appeared in the print edition of Locust Review 9. Social media splash image by Omnia Sol. Locust Review 9 cover by Adam Ray Adkins.
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