Along the Juniata, the gray stones,
gray squares in the grass,
keep the hills from the road, keep them
where they are.
When we pass the stones,
like the Earth’s stitches,
I know we’re about to see a rock face
following a bend in the road,
where the strata bends like sound waves.
It’s clear God is below the Earth, not above—
his head, giant frame for the planet—
and he makes a sound that makes the Earth.
But first I thought of Kanye’s head
singing, singing, singing into that rock.
Sarah Blake lives outside of Philadelphia with her husband and son. Her Kanye West poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Boston Review, Drunken Boat, and elsewhere.
After that: speechless. But there are more poems here, in The Poetry Section’s archives, when you’re ready. You may contact the editor at firstname.lastname@example.org.