grounds for admittance

who imported the bevy of peacocks to the sculpture
         gardens? or did they just crash the party one afternoon,
taking the curators’ concern for permission? they stalk
         amongst the art works, noble, mobile, profiling delicate
mohawks against unforgiving bronze and static stone.

a peacock’s call sounds like the color of his breast, a
         blue so loud it howls. walk towards one—act as if it’s
that metal figure you’re interested in—and watch him
         throw up his tail. i gotcha master piece right here, he says,
in perfect body language. he rotates on deliberate feet,

keeping all his eyes on you. if you were a peahen, you
         would know how to appreciate this display. you think
of other gardens, where labor sculpts bodies as bodies
         shape land, gorgeously, art for living’s sake, brilliant
masculinity you watch from windows and pay in cash.