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?