By day, in the pool,
where the teals splash,
the hottentot teals,
to the sound of the peacocks,
peacocks in heat,
and the curassow,
the firework bird going off
with a bang, it
happens, all of it
happens, and I
will not say what,
while the guinea pigs
and backsides
as one, decide
it’s worse over there
and come back,
envying the orange
bishop his perch, and how
to him too it happens;
but why spell it out,
what with the peacocks
in heat, the curassow’s
screech like a whoopee
cushion deflating,
and the llamas tossing
and trotting, happens
too freely
and indistinctly
for misunderstanding,
the one thing necessary,
whatever it was:
that guinea pig has it,
he’s getting away,
and don’t expect help
from a peacock in heat,
but now I remember,
it all comes back now,
and if only
the curassow’s song
would leave me
in peace, or I could
just see you
(are you still there?)
through the peacock’s
fanned tail, there is nothing,
nothing, I would
rather discuss.
Image found here.
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