the day shifts, we talk to each other the way
we talk to each other, the luster fades, our
bodies fill with sap, there is a shift, joy
reappears before another personal narrative
burns to a heap of citations, continuing in
complicated machinery, becoming blood
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[the incompressible shuffles into place]
substituting one day for the next remaining attempt to emerge from the next gesture skip deity made entirely of language, to the next instant justification graveyard, like content, like everything else, like a given epic, like another battle dream beach distance, another metaphor without preemptive assumptions.
we are through and the matter is time, is material substance, is too many free radicals, a consequence for contemporary rethinking, but what account accounts, indexes rational skips to the next gesture stale regime?
I want to believe in conclusion forest, in an ascendant transmission, but the pain remains, the places visited remain, a reverse placebo reverses reason that never was, because incessant dread snaps cool, captures remains doing the same.
Known for her work as a gender activist, kari edwards published several books, including the posthumous poetry collections Bharat jiva (Belladonna Books, 2009) and succubus in my pocket (EOAGH Books, 2015).