All this talk through a tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were communicable my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends mystified, whose names like patients names.
Our clumped crave stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Security in the front place, you said, is hope misplaced
or no hope at all. But I nearly, in my dreams I vision,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades for the receipts as victim of our quondam war.
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