At the pond, there are dragonflies. Some dead
center in the lake. You knew they were there,
the damp, nectar-soaked tongues of drainage piping.
You drank from them, washed your skin
stood on duck droppings and brushed the amber teeth
of bicycle tire chains. You saw them running
the smoke-soaked silhouettes of the army-
green frogs, warned me of the toxic gases produced
by the onion grass weeds and of the distance
between spaces. A dragonfly wing can measure
five inches, you say to the distance between yourself
and the torn, jaundiced, carry-me-with-you heads
of lily pads in the anchorage of water. Damned
by the scale of your crown, you paint epitaphs
on your reflection in the water. Rust
it just right in the light and it’s gold. The way
you became this dragonfly king
