The old poet loves peacock feathers
And gathers them as they fall, one
By one, from perches in the trees
Near his house.
First, he caresses
Them with a dry writing brush, oh, so
Carefully, lest he separate the delicate
Spines, knowing the colors are interlocked.
Then, he looks for a place to stand them
In his cramped, little house. Proper
Location, he says, is half of any art.
Near his bed he keeps a jarful of
These planetary perturbations.
In the egg-yolk light of his lamp,
He sees universes scintillating in blue
And gold like his beloved Saturn,
And hears, from close by roosts, the dry
Clattering of galaxies being re-arranged.
And then the cry of damnation comes:
He sleeps and dreams of starfalls
And all the rumpus of dragons.
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