Mason Wray
—
Humdrum
The neighbor’s kid shows me
a stained feather from the alley
as if it’s stained glass
or fletching from an arrow
that ends a mythic despot’s rule.
I pretend at wonder with him, quietly
perturbed how practical
my magic has become. Consider how
in Canada, a crew of postal clerks
syphoned helium from a zeppelin
to a greenhouse & flew
the whole glass cavern like a cloud.
Dormant seeds bloomed
into novel native flora,
an ethereal museum
over their little alpine town.
I mean to say how useless it is
I can sit & make that up
then tell a kid I love
put that down.
Mason Wray is a poet from Atlanta, Georgia. His work has appeared in Ploughshares, New Ohio Review and New Letters, among others. He's the recipient of support from Bread Loaf, and holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Mississippi.
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