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 gone by the board, 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 hope misplaced

or no desire 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 representing the prize as sacrificial lamb of our previous war.

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