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  1. 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.


    Rating: 5 / 5