Tuesday, 8 April 2014

6. Ducks

I confess—today
I mistrust the ducks.

They've been diving
for brass knobs and buttons,

came up speckled with lens-dew.
Those focussed feathers.

A fat chap cocks a crooked
duckbrow and shakes

seven years of penitentaries
from his tail, but I suspect

the ducks are not on our side.

Give a duck an inch &
a duck will snatch

your scent, your cigarettes,
your shift dress, the one

adorned with pearl buttons,
sparrow bones,
the ducks will take those.

Don't believe me? Don't.

Park your rump benchwards
where polystyrene blossom

scatters in the wind. Hold out
your palm. Offer popcorn &

coke crumbs. The ducks
will take the whole goddamn

matinee. Don't believe me.
But don't come crying

when they've burned your boats
and sacked your cities, for

you cannot trust the ducks.
These ducks, loosely woven

of another skein and skin.

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