At the Funeral

We had all been wet
when you entered,
cold and wanting,
weary of the dampness.

We had noticed 
your stealth;
we had resigned to the
lateness of your arrival.

Knowing you were dismissed,
you still had crawled
into the labyrinth where
we huddled close together,
rejecting the loss
that had been thrust upon us.

You’d been the last one
to be served the loss -
clumsily, you’d picked each crumb
of what hadn’t looked real.

You’d shivered
to unspoken judgements;
you’d clung to a short breath -
nothing could warm you enough 
to help you survive
the death.