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 mystified, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped crave stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Hope in the propriety locale, you said, is hope 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 representing the honour as sacrificial lamb of our quondam war.
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