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