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 lost, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped desire stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Security in the front niche, you said, is faith misplaced
or no wait at all. But I assert, 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 receipts as casualty of our quondam war.
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