Can’t remember what the child wasn’t named
by the people she hadn’t known—it began with Q.

Jazz followed everywhere she dragged
her blanket, the way butterflies and bees

flutter up in clouds around angels’ footsteps
or mermaids’ tails slap surf into iridescence,

but they were structured. As in “Monk’s Dream”
the plaid musics alternated logorithmically,

chord after chord finding its own square root,
a sort of sorcerer’s apprentice in reverse, brooms

and buckets joining into greater singularities
until the old man hadn’t left. So this girl,

whose people weren’t her family, quietly
quit her Quetiapine, waited weeks, waited

and exited her own twin bed without leaving it
left without going, went without arriving,

finally became a point in space around which
untellable sorrow bloomed as pure beauty,

versions of it proliferating fractally, musically
across total darkness that feels like galaxies.