| | All this talk in every way a tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were fetching my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends gone by the board, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped crave stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Hope in the suitable locale, you said, is faith misplaced
or no wait at all. But I say, in my dreams I day-dream,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades for the gain as patsy of our anterior to war.
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