Death never/always betrays retrospection. Thou
Shalt Not guards the approaches: an asphalt road,
a badly constructed hill, the view laid out
where all the patchwork fields lie in error.
Down through the medieval ridge and furrow,
summer lingers for the historical winter.
In a candlelit hall, the eighteenth-century sheep
make their excuses and rise to depart;
the hero folds his cards and slinks away.
Who is not satisfied his superiors were mistaken,
that no one should feel guilty making a packet of money
or asking the shy girl to go to bed just once?
The eclipse comes round, late in the millennium,
each night a weed torn from a better idea,
the garden rooted in Europe’s understairs philosophy,
where every sheep is equal to every other
and all the cows are encouraged to form parliaments
and elect representatives who respect them.
No one can remain neutral when the age
catches us acting briefly, mistakenly human,
each Machiavel who began as humble murderer.