Hardin's sixth collection attempts to behold language anew, to listen in on its "preview of eternity." Aware of ambiguities, his poems nonetheless speak openly to existence, to the mind's "attempts/to console itself," and to the "intoxication of incoherence" existence so often feels like.

If the taste of the eternal "is increasingly absent in our words," then Jeff Hardin's sixth collection, A Clearing Space in the Middle of Being, attempts to behold language anew, to listen in on its "preview of eternity." Aware of ambiguities that plague our lives and given to swerves of logic and dislocations, to echoes and reverberations "too numerous to see in some totality," his poems nonetheless speak openly to existence, to the mind's "attempts/to console itself," and to the "intoxication of incoherence" existence so often feels like. Here in a postmodern world, is it still possible to step boldly into certainty, into clarity, to find a sacred and shared space where "all moments blaze up with a speaking/voice"? Hardin listens intently, discovering more and more how "wanderingly vast" enchantment still might be. In the presence of so many options for understanding, he chooses to believe "a new/parable unfolding, still instructive," pointing him toward a fellowship with others who likewise "lean toward thinking some healing is already/underway."