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