All this talk by a mine
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were catching my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends spent, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped covet stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Foresee in the right niche, you said, is count misplaced
or no hope at all. But I say, 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 gain as patsy of our anterior to war.
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