We gaze into your eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes.
We forget the display is blind.

Your fanned tail really a cupped palm,
gathering each hen’s quiver to your ear,

your feathers the green-blue glamours of
reflective absence. No one

ever praises the ass of the peacock,
grin of quills that does the heavy lifting,

or how you eat anything from ants
to Styrofoam, from cheese to chicken.

Road roamer, flower devourer:
the one who’ll pick a fight with a goat.

Preen all you want. What I love of you
will be the bare undercarriage,

the calamus. I am done with beauty.
Only a blinking eye can measure the light.

More Poems by Sandra Beasley