Duckling

Kalbarri during winter

and we're boxing in a duckling.

The thing's lost. 

Fuck.

There they go: my nerves. Breaking, weeping

as the thing

trips

on its little legs,

bum up and panic-stricken.

Tiny chirps so completely helpless

they're beautiful:

fear minus ego.

We're only trying to help 

return it home.

We swoop on its fall 

and scoop it up

- the thing more fragile than snow.

It lifts its little head in terror,

desperate for family,

awaiting the blow

or the crushing teeth

but we set it down where we see it's safe again. 

My arched back and cocky smile, 

my hardness of spirit,

the layers of cement 

laid down

for all tomorrows:

gone. All gone. Ruptured.

Fuck you god.

Why do lost little ducklings

have to suffer

on their little legs?

Or maybe

that there

was Christ with the Cross, 

bum up,

tripped over the shocking weight

of total innocence,

nothing left

but the faculty

to humble the everything else.