Drew Gardner




The Inside



the inside of a severed thought

is not a question

made more realized by welding sparks in afternoon


releases feeling through a heightening of cadence

the reversal of avoidance, in proportion to its care

the building’s edge reflected in a pool of coverings

was clear, but not enough

to move away in its allure


I thought I wanted that, until the porcelain momentums of small excitements

constrained, are the black squares at Carrol St. station, revealing

we’ll know each other for a little while on Earth,

just as I was getting ready to go, the bits of white and red show through

that America will try to disappear that part of you

fight it, brothers and sisters, my friends, I love you so, preparing,

now more real, beyond the quiet group of firemen

as people get out of the car at Houston St.

and we adjust to make room for each other


what was war needed to create them, love now is to us

like confusion where sex and friendship meet

someone didn’t come along to save me,

that presence of healing now looks down on situations from a distance, irritated

to be treated as an interloper, it would withdraw

its elsewhere from things that happen


unbreath, step, in colors of dissipation

to believe impatiently won’t pass through the ground

despite the urging is everything, okay, for a while


the picture of a plan that turns out not to fit

the way it wanted, but to fixate on desire that way

holds out on us because of certainty

feeling, presence, intelligence and action

none create the shape this seems to hang upon


system wound, sistrum wound

sister found, fell purged,

all the way up the ladder of voices




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