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M a g g i e   B l a k e




Kitchens lit and carts falling,

the plummet and the thin gold

veins that await, the work that buries

into the earth, because when you know,

you know, and until then, my heart

is a generator, my heart is a ladder.





One house, with lights on,

swells against old wood and glass,

adrift on the sound wheat

makes when you stand in the middle

of the field, when it pretends to own

the words of the ocean: swell, rise,

break, crest, and wave, all gold

made black this time of night. 






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