No. 6


Mimi Khalvati  



The air is the hide
   of a white bull, the light
as tame.  But if a storm brews
   this afternoon 
when bladderwrack will be
   black at his hooves
and the first white waves
   lather him up into seafoam

she will mount him, rein him
   in with the right horn
and as shorelights fade
   riding oblivion back into time
where the light of the rosehip
   founders, see
   reveal its astonishing face.


It is said
   God created a peacock of light
and placed him
   in front of a mirror.
In the presence
   of God, being so ashamed at his own
beauty, his own
   unutterable perfection, the peacock

broke out in a sweat.
   From the sweat of his nose, God created
the Angels.
   From the sweat of his face, the Throne, Footstool
Tablet of Forms, the Pen
   the heavens and what is in them.
From breast and back
   the Visited House, prophets, holy sites, etc.
From the sweat of his two feet
   God created, from east to west, the earth.
The sea is
   glistening peacock sweat.
Tarmac too.
   From sweat of the peacockís feet of pearl
comes my window view.
   Perhaps I am formed from a trembling

drop on his ankle.
   Cypress, sunflower, bicycle wheels
grass dried in heat
   to the colour of wheat, all, all are
peacock water, peacock dew
   shame and beauty, salt and light
Godís peacock
   in his consciousness, walks over.



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