What is success?

All this talk in every way a channel tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.

You were fetching my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs

with friends spent, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped crave stirs and how

when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Hope in the right place, you said, is upon misplaced

or no expectancy at all. But I nearly, in my dreams I reverie,
in my dreams I do not hope.

Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades in behalf of the gain as victim of our quondam war.

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