People are like dinner glasses
Born long laid dusty
Time slowly spins them
Round in wash of water and cloth
Till dripping full of soapy years
they reach their age of translucence.
Yet you shattered young, Flûte à France
What life within would
Wrinkles echo forth?
Would we see England’s Joan, rancor
Calcified, sagging maniac,
Or Orlean’s maid, crowned in white?
We cannot know. All for us is
Darkened glassy sight
Refracted by men exactly
To bear the old wine brought with them
To the funeral graveyard dance.
There is no sight, only a sound.
The glass has been crunched
The wedding begun
Of Jerusalem and Domrémy.
For in your flesh the land of birth
Became the Holy Land of God.