An immaculate teardrop
of slick and
iridescent aquamarine,
underscores a godly coppice
of formidable quills—
with those mint
and basil
and pistachio
hints of
sumptuous eyes,
littered and lost among
speckled tufts
of Tiffany
blue and Kelly
green plumage—I cannot stop
seeing him,
looking at me
watching him
from my spot
there at the meager
fringe of a garden dale.
But unlike
him—I will eventually
hop this fence again,
easy as can be.
Maybe not as graceful
in gesture as he
is, but fuck it—
nobody
ever loved
a peacock
for his
capability.
