Arrows wore hawk’s feathers, a tongue of flint,
pursued the heart who said “I like you but
not that way. I’m no valentine, I move”.

So arrows aimed ahead, at nothing,
showed how others move, leading modern eyes
from bold label towards revealed object.

Barbed they can’t be pulled out, snapped words remain,
shocked beauty stilled by superficial pain
in a painting where all that matters now

is how Saint Sebastian survived the flight
of arrows to surprise Rome’s emperor
who sentenced him to death with sticks and stones.

Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet Moving Parts (HappenStance) and a story collection By all means (Nine Arches Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His poetry and prose have appeared in Stand, Rialto, Magma, The Forge, The Cortland Review, etc. He blogs at litrefs.blogspot.com/ Bsky: @TimLoveWriter Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/tim.love.315 Instagram: @timlove136