Carry my knuckles in the black velvet sack of a poem because it bends. I’ll bear one female flower & one male & the poem wakes in the middle of the moon. Sincerity is a kite, quiet, of alinear sex parts. Accuse me. Of curdled pollen & garlic sense. Of gripping a penny-filled sock. Of the poem’s obligation to move. Elastic, foaming, windy, away from the general. Seat yourself next to a stranger & syntax shunts the messy desk of war.