The rising Devil likes our minds encumbered
with the busyness of trying to rule this world
instead of dancing the steps for which we’re made.
He tells us that we are his footling foundlings;
he delights as we grow flustered by attention.
Unnatural heat unhinges our best steps.
His furnace, through the prisms of our eyes,
can cataract our visions: we see God,
in all we, self-appointed Shepherds, do.
When the Devil sinks to the darkness where he’s bound
he will not drag us whining: we’ll march proud,
complacently competing for the honour
of being first in line at any trough.
‘What is our purpose?’ rival Pharisees
ask us rhetorically, then claim to answer
while lost small children so very long at sea
in the space of time keep searching for The Dancer.