All this talk in every way a mine
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were attractive my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends lost, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped desire stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Hope in the propriety responsibility, you said, is count misplaced
or no desire at all. But I nearly, in my dreams I dream,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades for the gain as casualty of our anterior to war.