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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.
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