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 covet stirs and how 
 
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us. 
Hope in the propriety place, you said, is faith misplaced 
 
or no desire at all. But I assert, in my dreams I day-dream, 
in my dreams I do not hope. 
 
Where were you when was I? Counting down 
the decades representing the honour as patsy of our whilom war. 
 
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