"Diseases of the Will" to return library books, care of adoring fan

My discerning readership made this troubling discovery this evening. Rest assured that I will rectify this departure from the ideal library situation when I commence the Montreal leg of my book tour in a mere...10 days!

Selected Poems: 1977-1997 by Patrick Lane

So as not to incense the more literarily minded, I will try to make my comments as uncontroversial as possible:
-In Selected Poems, Patrick Lane evokes the image of stone frequently
-these poems could not be called cheerful
-If the Bechdel Test applied to poems, Patrick Lane's "Commune Girl" would not pass it
-the following poem reminded me of how difficult it was to think coherently of someone's cancer diagnosis last year:


There Is a Time
for Robert Kroetsch

There is a time when the world is hard,
the winters cold and a woman
sits before a door, watching through wood
for the arrival of a man. Perhaps a child is ill
and it is not winter after all. Perhaps
the dust settles in a child's breath,
a breath so fragile it barely exists.
Tuberculosis or pneumonia. Perhaps
these words place her there, these words
naming the disease and still not curing it.

Maybe it is not the man she waits for.
We want it to be someone. We want
someone to relieve this hour. On the next farm
the nearest woman to the woman is also sitting
in dust or cold or watching a door. She is no help.
So let it be the man. He is in the barn
watching the breathing of his horses.
They are slow and beautiful,
their breath almost freezing in perfect clouds.
Their harness hanging down from the stalls
gleams, although old and worn. He is old and worn.
The woman is waiting behind the door
but he is afraid to go there because of her eyes
and the child who is dying.

There is a time when it is like this,
when the hours are this cold, when the hours
are no longer than a bit of dust in an eye,
a frozen cloud of breath, a single splinter in a door
large enough to be a life it is so small and perfect.
Perhaps there are soldiers coming from far away,
their buttons dull with dust or bright with cold,
though we cannot imagine why they would come here,
or a storm rolling down from the north
like a millwheel into their lives.

Perhaps it is winter.
There could be snow. Or it could be dust.
Maybe there is no child, no man, no woman
and the words we imagined have not been invented
to name the disease there is no child to catch.
Maybe the names were there in a time before them
and they have been forgotten. For now let them die
as we think of them and after they are dead
we will imagine them alive again,
the barn, the breath, the woman, the door.