If a peacock ever passes I'll pretend I'm looking at its feathers, its legs, its crackling claws, its vain overbearing strut, its long neck; the fact there's another peacock that isn't passing now...

The peacock of
modernism,
the one that started the
lank-haired poet,
his suit corroded by the
salt-spray of the sea;

the fact is there's still
another peacock,
not yours,
that I tear apart on the patio
of my imaginary house;
I wring its neck,
with grief almost---
and it seems to me so blue,
so terribly blue,
like the blue of the sky.