Drew Gardner







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


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


not a sleeping babe at all




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