What is success?

All this talk including a channel tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.

You were catching 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.
Foresee in the front niche, you said, is hope misplaced

or no expectancy 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 victim of our quondam war.

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