Of the creeds of horses and beliefs of dogs,
I claim no knowing—only this:
they ponder mine as little as I ponder theirs.

Even here, in this, I am shaky, ignorant.
Knowledge, fleeting as always, escapes me now,
and the themes I grasp leave me cold in the autumn

of this perfect day, free and out of work,
not the slightest bit confused on which is which.
The waitress frees the chained-together chairs.

I choose the best chair, how we humans know
a mystery to the only other souls:
the tourist horse and the dissipated panting dog.

The others—there are no others here—
I cannot see, but I admit their presence
and fear I may in my ignorance offend them,

fumbling phrases, doubting their rite:
which serves as wafer, which as wine.
The waitress brings me fresh orange juice. I wait.

‘What heavy thoughts,’ the lying dog must think,
‘occupy the draught horse, dreaming its fly whisks,
avoiding whinnying except when part of the service.’

A man in shorts, cap, and camouflage shirt
ascends the eight, marble, steps next door
and goes inside, the horse seems sure, to hosannas.

It is early and with no custom, and the chef himself
provides me, seated outside in the best chair,
my fish and loaf while I turn at the sound of hooves

behind me, across the Prinsengracht, where barks
pursue the horse, mane damp with the city’s weight,
propelling, by pulling, a cart of intentional tourists.

A dove, conspiratorial and keen,
settles in the chair beside me, murmurs,
‘Where does all this lead?’—not kindly, but slyly.

I give him thoughtless invective, the only kind
that counts against me. Father, I have sinned.
The sun blinks out; the phantoms fold into shade.

They, the dog and the draught horse, reappear
on the tales of clouds resuming autumn coverage
of the best chair, mine. Guests arrive.

Each claims the best chair as her throne,
silent as we feast on separate truths,
while the dog and horse dream far beyond us.

Morning Star
There is not a lot of madness in me, mornings,
and I pretend some mornings last all day.
Afternoons, I heed the worst storm warnings,
let news of wars and famines have its way
until the evening’s medicated hours
bring the wisdom of sedation and I sleep.
I sleep as well as those who wield the powers
must be sleeping. Could they be awake and keep
their counsel while around us battles rage
and all of us grind all of us to dust
that we press in pellets, feed upon, and stage
as if that’s normal living? Yes, they must,
or else be mad, and I be sane, to see.
But seeing saddens. They insist I’m free.

Free from the Painted Pony
The kitchen counter where I count my pills
is empty as it always really is.
Imaginary powders cure my ills.
Fantastic bromides bubble up and fizz
away the wars or, failing that, my view
of other people’s horrors. Fair enough.
I don’t need drugs to go outside and do
unto them first; for later I can slough
the memories, and do it all again,
for I have evolved (heroic anecdote:
like the rifle shot they say that lessens pain
in the slaughterhouse before we cut the throat),
so far that I think my scars come from the hugs,
and this is why I can say no to drugs.

Exodus
When they found the Moral Blindness gene and pruned
it from our DNA, they pulled the pin
from what had kept our civilisation tuned.
The towns unravelled. There was no more sin
and no more goodness. We were sore, appalled.
Once seen, the horrors left us paralysed.
In my last active moment, I had called
on God, who laughed at how I analysed
our fault: that we stopped thinking our actions mattered.
We would have been extinct before we evolved
had we been hindered every time we splattered
the less rapacious. Moral Blindness solved
that problem; its removal leaves a void
requiring this incoming asteroid.