We are amateur heretics, driven by intuition.
Our stricken consciences fire off warnings, urgent
pulses of energy to bypass understanding, compelling
a change of direction. Lacking prophets to warn us,
angels to guide us, instead like animals we sniff out
perpetrators, use our instinct to carve a wide arc
away from those whose scent is off. They seem human
from appearance: suave, genial, if a little generic.
But dogs just know these things. We follow their lead
in avoiding them, heading instead for the margins,
finding ourselves with the dispossessed and desperate.
By this point we’re outcasts, marginalised with them,
broken into wholeness; in our shattered, simplified
state we are fully and finally free to let love lead.