Four Poems

Joan of Arc

You were almost still a young girl
staring at a dead horse
who had broken its leg
in the freshly painted yellow garden—            then,

you asked no one
for an explanation, thinking
all experience is frozen, of
the moment, of
the instant when two pale breasts
fall from a black sling frayed at the edges—
well, not quite, but again
of that moment and serial
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