Vane

This cock doesn’t crow three times,
just spins endlessly
chasing its tail feathers
targeting the flow of wind.

But its fletching lies
not flat, never flying off the bow
to achieve a perfect rotation. Still,
this betrayal hits its mark

or Peter, as in a similar case
which appears closed with a look—
one straight shaft shot
and the show’s over.

Is that the point of sin
to pin us to the board
like a blue-tipped butterfly?
Bull’s-eye

the archer cries
as if the arrow had an end,
as if the score
is already settled.

Bullshit
we want to utter
when the head turns
True North.

This is no knock on Jesus
whose faithful limbs pulled
taut the scarlet strings,
but on the hand that grips the gale

releases it with such abandon
we can’t catch our breath
aren’t east or west,
right or left

just wheel like a windmill
grinding the grain,
never humble enough
to stop