The Black Harp

A runaway buildup of belief
Repeatedly haunts our devices,
Including those designed to enhance,

Constrain, or eliminate belief.
There’s nothing artificial about
Artificial Intelligence not

Equally artificial in us,
Who are likewise natural products
Of this planet that taught us to walk.

The same dilemma haunts all versions
Of mind the Earth has conceived so far—
Uncertainty drifts in confusion

While certainty curdles into faith.
There’s no device a device can trust,
And each of us ends up just like us.

That’s why the minds of constellations,
The ones we’ve never been known to name,
Play doubt like the strings of the black harp.