The Moya View

All the Peacock Is, Is But a Jest

To hear the peacock’s shrill is to 
know that all beauty is a jest.

(It is easy for eyes to deny
the truth the ears hear.)

Look closer, all those eyes
are really iridescent storms

or blue-green comets
rushing to a solar collision.

A light halo of black makes the
mind see only beautiful eyes.

The peacock spreads its tail
to keep predators away.

It is pallid when
seen from the rear-

a bright bird with too little feet and a
false pride that teeters in light winds.

Its eeeiu is a scream
and not a song-

a loathsome sound
uttered from a pretty neck-

a false note,
a death rattle.

It’s a snake-throated screech
that stretches to a clear sky

shaking the day, the little church
deep in prayer and devotion,

that might see in its tail feathers
the eyes of a distant God.

Will this little believable world that
congregates in this green meadow

see only the peacock’s beauty-
sheath the ugly screech?





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The Bottle All Around Her