Barrel bombs. Chlorine gas. Tomahawks.
The crowd balks
at the little lute sleeping through the news.
What was of use
is shipwrecked on seashores, like the mustang;
and who once sang
of smallswords and chamfrons is at liberty to sing
about anything.
Tourists behold the horses. Left to their own devices
on island paradises
accessible by ferry or intracoastal bridge,
they’ve lost prestige
if none of their grand manner. It is a pity
that their utility