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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