The peacock eyes the clearing, he pecks and pesters forward,
Washes his feathers and rivers towards the other fowl.
To each hen he unfurls a leaf stained autumn,
veined in jewels, and crowns his mate to sate his hot desires.
Then, his queer gaze starts to screech,
His eye veins with liquor until it finds me,
His beaded pupil dawns to trace, gently nestling on my face,
Plucks his velvet plumage and places a feather kindly at my feet. 
Have you made a mistake? It would not be the first. 
My face is soft and delicate. In black nights I've often been called girl.  
I say nothing. Sometimes others know things that we do notー 
Where the first worm crawls, where the south meets the fallー
So I listen to him speak. At first the bird is silent. 
The peahens watch his oddness, the glint in his eyes, the feather at my feet. 
Then, softly, he opens his beak and sings:
Let them watch, let them stare. These feathers are made for wanting.