The Peacock
That lumbering train,
tarpaulin wings brushing
stone chips and dust,
that heaving gush to the
terrace, keeping vigil
over flower pots
and threats from
the neighbouring
desert—always making
a song and dance about
everything—a block of
iridescence against
the co-operative’s cream.
The spit and crackle
of tempering in daal.
Heeng laps the morning
sun and from time to time
it all turns dark. He
agglutinates
in blood-iron notes
of dampened earth,
the frantic beating of
wooden windows,
white noise,
tarring to clarity
against the neon
gradient of night,
his plume a
tousled glisten
off the ledge.
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