Some truth.

It is not its own event

I am not getting any better at this
but the sun is out and the sun
is shining on our faces while we wait.

It is hard to be bothered but I am finding time
to be bothered by this. It is not until the weight,
the weight, is taken by them all

that it comes clear. Their shoulders
must ache and the tears are clear now
of my eyes where they have been

bothering my world in mirrored wobbles.
I am no better at this but the sun is shining
and it cannot stop though it all went well.

The sun is on my face again and all that sobbing
all that sobbing. And I have no right over the upset
but the choices are the same. And every funeral

is cumulative it seems to me, and not its own event.
Every funeral is all the deaths I’ve known and
all that sobbing. All that sobbing.