All this talk by a shaft
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were fetching my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends spent, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped desire stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Wish in the front responsibility, you said, is hope misplaced
or no expectancy at all. But I clout, in my dreams I reverie,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades for the receipts as patsy of our whilom war.
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