The Flying Saint
The saint’s not dead by way of arrows.
pampered by a woman, nurtured.
Arrows do not pin a body to the ground.
But lift a saint through air.
Arrows are his wings.
Next time they use heavy clubs
to mince his body
(for better eucharistic chewing)
You’re not flying now, Saint.
“-Now I’m a clowd of blood
over your heads”
year 1995. I got to a point where I started shooting wooden arrows to a metal corpse.
Instead of being destroyed, the shape, gutted by arrows, started to grow wings.
model of wood, metal and hemp fabric, photography