All this talk by a shaft
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.
Wish in the front place, you said, is upon misplaced
or no expectancy at all. But I clout, in my dreams I reverie,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades representing the gain as casualty of our previous war.
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