What is success?

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

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

with friends gone by the board, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped crave stirs and how

when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Foresee in the front place, you said, is faith misplaced

or no hope at all. But I clout, in my dreams I vision,
in my dreams I do not hope.

Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades in the service of the honour as patsy of our whilom war.

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