clay blancett


If it could rend open this metal, if it could make its way to Brazil. It was the structural

element, I couldn't remember its name. I called it a spanner just to have something.

It dipped into each flower, I ran it wide open to Midlothian. Everything felt tight,

the whole thing sounded compressed. It was the compression, it migrated, it felt like it

might flip at a high rate of speed, be reduced to the sum of its components. I thought

I might be trapped inside of it. There was no reduction, it moved too fast to see the wings

move. It was graceful and small and terrifying. I felt it bleed inside me. I felt the river

under the bridge, I felt the space under my truck, I felt it going by rapidly, I felt terrified.

In this way I spanned the bridge.


There are such things as mountain wastes, thick, rugged and empty.
To run those roads endlessly, would there be any point?
What is landscape when one moves through it quickly? What do I do

With the memory of it? To be lonely and seek it further, buffeted

By cold against leather, near hallucinating on the seat of the motorcycle.

Small village of old houses, burnt trailers, what might have once been

A post office. A blur of a creek and then gone. Back into woods.
Hollowed out western Carolina, ragged solace East Tennessee.
Maybe I yearned to crash, to transform into a wraith of those hills.
The expression of wind piercing a pine grotto,
The blue lightning cold of water over stones.