sheldrake

I was just at the park admiring ducks, and then I came to livejournal, and there was this poem and yourself.

Fly My Duck
by Andrew Lux

We must accept the duck as a bag.
The plastic is a new feather.
Fly my duck. Today I carry my
duck to the end of the narrative.
We jump from the conflict into resolution.
I twist his neck and he just pours out
of himself a hundred gold eggs.
I can use him as a bag to carry the eggs.
Cheater. You will never accept this duck
because I never will. If the duck could
speak it would say the feather tastes like
a swollen foot. The duck offers its body
as a bag, the way any god-fearing duck
of western climes would do.

[at http://www.livejournal.com/community/breathe_poetry/109166.html]