Little moon, little hilltop
of the throat, little bloom—
orchids petalled white,
night-breeze like a silk dress.
The queen peacock is fast
asleep. Holes
in the grass where crickets
should be, but there are fireflies,
star-flecks, a red, teeming
planet. Keep it far. Keep it
quiet. Keep mouth closed
so the sun never rises. Light,
with its violent
hands, can do so much
damage—
like growth, the freedom
to roam, the pink sheep
finally able to graze,
the queen peacock
awake, ready to rule.
