wouldn’t you like to grasp the stigma of this. men made
of tissue, the flesh of plants, the unliving. who comes
to the top and dares you to reach. the beat of the dead
upon us—our lines aren’t read. we sang together
before we sang together, whoever told us so. who told us
to sing at the outset, to shove aloft—push me aloft so I
can pull down the stem, the stamen, the toxic real
in whose hands tears the flesh, the skin goes liquid,
our form immaterial and our sight gone plastic