POPE JOAN AT FIFTEEN, DREAMING ON THE BOG, ASCENDS TO ANGELHOOD
Joan salted their stone kneecaps
bathed a secret in the simmer
of a reckless young head
& brocaded shoulders
a set of wings astride that back
birding here
at the world’s pinnacle
above the glory of flight
visioned a swooping
over pitches made rectangles
crosses chapels fountains
sputtering into a field
blue in forget-me-nots
where villagers suckle lollipops
croesus up the horizon
