He preferred to live in a world
of transparency and numbers,
broke the German codes with their
infantile fantasies of military glory
Her betrayal is a subtle mutation
of muted light in the mist, the
stale grey fog of Brittany

Her black willful eyes soften
into beautiful, soft-eyed solitude
Outside it smells of rain and burnt
leaves in a dangerous, hostile crag
where we perceive the similar in
what’s different, the different in the
similar, and leave behind the

limitations of hope and reason
Restraint liberates invention
Engagement in a task and
we forget its meaninglessness
The movement of thought can
be more interesting than any thought—
She betrays me in a hurtful grey fog

Just a bit of ocher and a touch
of green—we don’t express nature,
we are nature—all our pleasures
spiced with the taste of ash, a clear
sense of grey, each in the glory of
solitude—we seize our powers by the gift
of sharp forms and the terrors of survival

Each day they felt their love
had one less day to go
When I love I don’t think
about meaninglessness,
but my heart is made of leather
and I never reach solely outward 
Perfection through collision

and conflict—explosions in the fog,
the deadlines, we need to prepare and
the days of the great revelations are here  
as we engage in a series of long
complicated events slow, determined
and, if we’re not prepared and if
we’re betrayed, then what

will happen to us next?
After the First World War
so many soldiers returned
shattered, had no jobs and
found their wives and sweethearts
had abandoned them
Whatever they gave was 

so easily taken away
How cruel were the times like sea
smoke air over cold water mists—
Ancestral metaphysical error grips
the inevitable strife of life, grips
his burgeoning leather heart as it cracks,
sears and scars with each betrayal     

-December 14, 2019-