A Poem: Weathervane / Whether Vain

I.
The old one was
a virile rooster,
one claw firmly grasping the earth
the other upraised in a cradling fist
as though daring the elements to uproot it.
"Golden Rooster stands on One Leg,"
in Tai Chi poses.
The winds would push the outstretched wings
and the beak and the brass comb would cut into
the very head and heart of the gust.
You could read the storm clearly
on such a bird.

I miss it.

In the redoing of the roof
it was deemed archaic, out of style.
It was done away with.
I don't know how they could have folded it
with all its sharpness and arrogance
but they did, and put it
where no wind would ever touch it.

II.
They say our world is besieged by
"cultural relativism."
That globalism is the unexpected terror
of lacking an edge,
a wall to back up against;
That now we know why Italians
were reluctant to believe Columbus;
it was not out of doubt,
but from foresight of what would happen:
After all, a flat world with an abyss at its edge
is far more trustworthy
than any sphere.
On a globe,
calamitous weather bleeds like a stain
like a bruise across an eye
like rot across an orange.
Nothing contains.
Nothing is innocent.

You say I lack a spine,
that my gentleness is
timidity or cowardice
that my "fairness" and "openness" are
euphemisms for laissez faire in anything and everything:
morality, religion, whatever.
I'll take your opinion into consideration,
along with everything else.
I've no reason left to object:

You have a point.

III.
There once was a weathervane on this roof
it told us where the wind was coming from,
and where it was going.

Only something steadfast can point to change.

But now the weather is in my veins,
I am a whether man, blown thither and yon
and everything I think or say or do
is vanity
the whether of everything is in my veins.
everything is in vain.

I may claim,
sardonically,
to be the new weathervane,
but if you look to me,
you will only see me
trying
trying
to point to you.