All this talk by a channel tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.

You were catching 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 place, you said, is count misplaced

or no expectancy at all. But I nearly, in my dreams I reverie,
in my dreams I do not hope.

Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades in behalf of the receipts as sacrificial lamb of our previous war.

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