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We discuss the paintings of St Sebastian.
In the first he finds respite against a tree,
face passive, one leg forward
and halo jaunty.

You note that his mane of hair looks soft—
like lamb's down.
I say he could leave at any time,
the bindings loose on his womanly wrists,
the arrows just a Halloween joke.

When we examine the second painting
you unconsciously draw back
from the anguish:
his body is crumpled towards the viewer,
face like wet clay,
the arrows a brutal compass.