This is my kind of contemporary poetry, the kind that lets the grammar do the substantive talking and treats vocabulary like window-dressing or frosting on the cake, the kind of poetry that doesn't really have ideas but gives the impression of ideas. It suggests. It digests—it's mid-digestion, like a Damien Hirst animal divided into slices and preserved in formaldehyde so we can see the stuff that was digesting inside. You don't need to know what exactly went in the front hole or what would have been coming out the back hole. You just need to understand the process of not understanding all that beautiful mid-gut material, the raw stuff transforming and compressed under the intestinal pressures of Blanchfield's dense and satisfying syntax. Get it?