In For a Pound

this is the paint Joan of Arc would choose
as she surveys tourist maps of Orleans
in flattered aspect ratios as she
visits with doctors in crow-flown acres
it is only on anniversaries we offer
such libations to our tragedies and our departed
in the next seat over we become
invisible to the near dears we
confuse obligations with preference
here at last, the choice of our dailiness
in good we trust the intentions of smiles
ready with blades at fathered betrayals
where absolution is a foregone conclusion
that slips from the bonds of our personal planets

Without Yellow, Without Orange

the sun don’t make changes
less than the sum of its parts
can carry like a tune in a paper bag
that is the name your love gives you
& is always in the form of a question
that starts today with promises free and clear
of reasons to get you to Pittsburgh
or Lyndhurst or Saint Louis in time
to tell the souls that cross your transom
that is the sentiment of back page bios
it is a calendar of incisions
you read to divide demands that rip
like miro paintings on your pastime