Wings
by Edgar Mason
Birds drift past airships.
Above the smoking city,
see the clear blue sky.
Her gears turn slowly,
moving esoteric limbs.
Wind sounds through her wires.
She watches, silent,
as swallows dally. Metal,
she is, ground-bound, sad.
Steam catches sunlight.
Master's joy is completion;
no time for desire.
Turning, her gears clank.
Out of wind, into workshop,
and she asks for wings.
Edgar Masonhas lived in too many places to talk about here, beginning with Baltimore and ending, most recently, with the west of France, where he lives with her family and seventeen mounted deer heads. His work has appeared in The Open Vein and Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), and at MorbidOutlook.com. He can be found online at radiosaturday.vox.com