We have domesticated death.
It follows us like a faithful dog.
We point
With our instruments
And our dog leaps out,
Its steel teeth
Sweep through flesh
Like a whip through fog.
Delighting in our willing slave,
We release it on the countryside,
Exulting as the blood
The bone and flesh
Arc through the air.
Such a lovely beast!
It moves to do our good
For race, for nationality,
For transactions with our God.
Somehow we miss,
Within its easy skills,
That flashing backward glance
That questions how to test itself