"Too late in the wrong rain," wrote Dylan Thomas, "They come together whom their love parted:"
The windows pour into their heart
And the doors burn in their brain.
. . . and though on the surface those lines have nothing to do with me this morning, they ring, and evoke a disturbance within me; they make me frown--half in puzzlement, half acknowledging their accuracy. Perhaps the morning's broader horrors and ambiguities--the beheadings, the air strikes, the politicians, what to do--perhaps they, too, have infiltrated those lines, my reading of them, my perplexed response.
Poetry is both sufferance and suffering, I suppose.