Offspring

Now this: from some recess,

the crawling back to breath

of a half-raw duckling,

wings brittle, down unplucking,

white bill gaping, shutting.

There is no sating

this thought-thing,

my own wrought hatchling;

no stomach to feel unfull,

yet it knows it is unfed

yet grows in its unfeeding.

Heaving eyeless

room to room, it hears

the retreat, the clicked lock;

through the door, I hear it peeping.