All this talk in every way a channel tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were attractive 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 niche, you said, is faith misplaced
or no hope 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 receipts as casualty of our previous war.
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