Dew Point
Because of the nipple crust riming a girl’s
breakthrough poem, I google Quetiapine.
From one I learn what robotrippping is;
from another, the names of clouds:
diamond dust, sundog, fallstreak halo.
How had I missed Simko, Huidobro?
At dew point, vapors collect, condense,
become visible–classifiable . . .
cloud-bow, fog bow, crepuscular ray.
Despite his anchor-pierced clavicle,
the languorous boy sprawled across
a poem’s quilt needs no explication,
but what, I’m forced to ask the class,
is a tramp stamp? There’s knowing silence
until a galante glossy-haired girl
who for no apparent reason calls to mind
an abiding younger self, gets up from her chair,
pivots on her boot heel and lifts her top
to expose above her tattered low-rise jeans
and spanning her iliac crest, a set of lilac
tatted fairy wings. As to what they from me
extrapolate, that too’s inscrutable.
