Daffodil Hill

A peacock aims tail-spread at hens
unseen. Great mainsail, fully fanned;
we behind him see back-of-the-tapestry
coarseness, knot and fuss: tawny
tail plumes, bloomers of bellows.
These vibrate sexual feeling into
a silvergray fan belt and yes! a whole
quill-forest rattles, one pelting monsoon
in a hollow. A gray peahen darts
from under cock’s underskirts.

Peacock turns, eyes front, all one
design, wallpaper sheen.
Nearby, Daffodil Jill, little vine
twining up all the lap momma has.

Now momma’s feeding her
raspberry airplane, lips and tongue.
And the early-daffodil overcast

holds, for an instant, soft aromas
—raspberries? Gasoline?