As soft nectarine light hoists up the morning
we walk with necks craned at the sky
because it, like us, is infinite

We go to see the ducklings,
whose baby bird bones 
reflect my need to prove 
that some things are weaker than I am 

And the park is bathed in four am
eerily empty except for king and queen 
who tease and flirt with the ease of those 
who know there is only growth to come from it

Like Peter Pan we don't pause
except to put aside the inevitability of age
hollering at the fire that burns between us:
I am not Wendy Darling but a Lost Boy

Drawn to the edge of the lake
being so small and easy to drown
you pull me back and whisper
“You have to let them come to you.”

and five ugly ducklings glide up
praying their unceremonious quacks one day
give way to something smoother

but we love them all the same

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