What is success?

All this talk through a 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 appetite stirs and how

when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Security in the right niche, you said, is hope misplaced

or no wait at all. But I nearly, 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 prize as sacrificial lamb of our whilom war.

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