Old Soldiers Never Die

What combat has reality but that combat
in the self, the eyes are dry,
simple statements build
an occasion for fury, beyond,

beyond all reason. The grey, the
filthy smoke of the chimneys to left
and right of these windows an occasion
for curses, the acrid fumes of the

burning filth, the smudgy coal
meet in the lungs an interior
acridity one somehow has developed
a tolerance for, and the eyes are

dry, the futility of anger moves
about, despairing of discovering
in love a simple friendliness.
One has fled so far from old

configurations of relationship,
to confront the same sly movements,
hidden motivations: one looks for a
gentle laughter as love’s blazon.