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 filling 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.