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.