All this talk including a channel tunnel 
of kid gloves and landmines went underground. 
 
You were fetching 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. 
Security in the suitable place, you said, is faith misplaced 
 
or no desire at all. But I nearly, in my dreams I day-dream, 
in my dreams I do not hope. 
 
Where were you when was I? Counting down 
the decades in behalf of the prize as patsy of our quondam war. 
 
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