You said you were tired of being  brave; and that you walked   away from your mother's funeral procession in a haze—  Did you mean equal parts  belief and disbelief? Maybe  I am wrong to read  every poem insinuates  itself upon my own experience. But in this case I don't need to revise:   in another country, people die;  among them, my own kin.   Some kinds of grief are larger than cathedrals; even before you enter,  you know your heart  has been belling its approach and yet   the sound stops short of filing  every arch, every vault. I don't know   if I could ever offer the kind  of blessing that was timely enough,   not wanting for more— neither to give nor to receive.