Drew Gardner
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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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