Joan of Arc in North Bend, Oregon
She reads and drives, does make-up
and eats crustaceans on melba toast.
Apples imitate her head and go up
in flames while a chalkstick runs her
figure on the ground.
No general's war is underneath her
brainsheets, and seldom boys locked out
from forgotten keys in a doorside dish.
She goes to sleep next to an alarm clock.
She wakes and puts on makeup.
That knowledge brings estimates is frontal,
and wisdom cripples spontaneity.
Each fact is a blustering fan pressing wind
over coals to sweatbox the reason in learning.
Blood draws from lungs like
joy drinks from compassion,
the eyes as from light while
burrowed in a kettle place—
there is only news, and next whistling moment,
more screeches into news.
This has possessed the magma that centers
our nature, though it hasn't ever turned