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 covet stirs and how

when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Security in the suitable locale, you said, is count 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 for the prize as casualty of our whilom war.

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