A dream-dead peacock, moon
light on its skin
A prickly-pear
room on the roof
Dried and ancient
the thorn-pierced bodies of birds
The susurrus of winds,
notes, calls in their throats
The dead peacock stands –
aglitter with fireflies
Hanging from its shackle the moon,
a pendulum, swaying
black trees, melting away
houses of brick and stone
The dream-dead peacock,
its clear eyes, open