99: Sing: A civil union is the Oxfam of self-doubt. Roses
stand in fear on thorns.

Drive-me-crazy men are thorns to roses not meant for union.

We took notes
that dwell on your good looks.
You’re supposed to breathe in and out.
You charge everything I got.
The lily — your hand, not red, not white, your hair
does the honors in a climate of violets with few opinions.

I look forward to annexing your best practices / in flux
— your soft cheek blushing between the lines, like here,
snaking around on your heels in gay pride of my despair —