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Rating: 5 / 5
All this talk through a channel tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were fetching 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.
Wish in the front place, you said, is count misplaced
or no desire at all. But I assert, 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 victim of our whilom war.