| | All this talk including 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 appetite stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Foresee in the right locale, you said, is faith misplaced
or no hope at all. But I clout, in my dreams I dream,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades in behalf of the prize as victim of our previous war.
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