All this talk by a mine
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were fetching my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends mystified, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped desire stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Security in the suitable place, you said, is hope misplaced
or no hope at all. But I clout, in my dreams I day-dream,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades in behalf of the prize as patsy of our whilom war.
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