Sleeping Peacock

His lid drawn up like any turtle's

over his glittering eye

this gorgeous bird

with folded tail

wings ribbed against his side

sucks in the day's devotion.

He is asleep. Do not disturb

this metaphor of peace.

Later his voice will break

the air into 'a thousand edges

when his snake-throat shakes

out, like a torn rag, its shocking sound.

For now, let us sheathe this silence.

He is a Grecian urn.

He broods like a kettle

over the fire of sleep.

Beneath his rubber lids

his eyes are slits

his forked feet

deal out a fine metallic dance.

All birds in one, he knows

Hesperides, and golden thighs

beneath him in the green

of Paradise. Two that wander

like cyclamen, stars

flinging up wild perfumes

in the still, ecstatic air

the hour before

the hiss of stone

-when the indifferent apple fell.

Fearful and predatory

are the refugees from home.