I don’t have anything particular to write at the moment, but read this poem last night and really liked it. It’s also from Without by Donald Hall.
Air Shatters in the Car’s Small Room
Distracting myself
on the recliner between
Jane’s hospital bed
and window, in this blue
room where we endure,
I set syllables
into prosy lines.
William Butler Yeats
denounced with passion
“the poetry of
passive suffering.”
Friends and strangers
write letters speaking
of courage or strength.
What else could we do
except what we do?
Should we weep lying
flat? We do. Sometimes,
driving the Honda
with its windows closed
in beginning autumn
from the low motel
to Jane’s bed, I scream
and keep on screaming.
No Promises This Time 