All this talk through a channel tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were communicable my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends spent, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped crave stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Foresee in the propriety responsibility, you said, is count misplaced
or no hope at all. But I say, in my dreams I reverie,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades for the gain as casualty of our quondam war.
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