Brian Blanchfield

Superfund Superfund

If this was all the access you had to sky, looking down through boardwalk boards into a tributary glinting, if this was all the time your calling or had been all this time, and you found it, foundv yourself arrested above an opening, if purgatory were as real as bridges, where would your religion build, in the soft parabola of carriage and suds, or in the hip points your heaviness keeps in counsel with the planks. The mill of spiderlight and curtainwork in one run over the impress of cofferdam in the other. This river in the days left to live, in the leftover days reclamation balances, trains its instrument on a prospect, romantic and pushy plainly. The joinery of the boards is thoughtful, or the prison wish is a watchwork through and through: to guess at the rare punt of a single stick’s bark odyssey, or to separate from the rummage each drifted glyph of superscript and gloss the passage. Drawn through the bothway of the ribs: A breath, and then another. No prior experience knock wood. Not purgatory, but overage.

Sep 18, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Brian Blanchfield