Pilate did it
as though he'd pissed
at the urinal
and, catching his thumb
in the spray,
had rinsed his hands
in the white
reflective bowl
then shrugged.
See his flicked wrists
scatter flecks
of glittered water
crowdwards
from his fingertips
in dizzying spirals
of sunlight
falling at their feet
Of course he was right!
Twice the crowd cried
Barrabas
though he'd compelled
them otherwise —
It was only in his power
to do their wish,
gift them his body,
arms outstretched, crucified.
His hand washing theatrics aside,
he stands tallest among them,
his white robe gleaming
clean against the brown earth
turning red in the encroaching shade.
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