Drew Gardner
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Solaris
some
pleasures
of
self-begotten limitation
imitate a
certain lightness
in the
attempt
to stretch
the heart
toward the
actual, ‘round here
we call
that poetry
around
one’s own
disgruntled
abeyance of
imagination’s
gut, where
are they
now?
feelings
are the shapes of
land, which
is us—
in the
building shade’s reentering of light
formal
good-byes always leave a bad taste in the mouth
wind-clad
over the
surface
and through
the substance,
the transformation
can’t be got around, transcribing
the sky to
what it is to see
means
leaves
rustling—
not a
sleeping babe at all
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