I had a friend I used to  write to every time  
I wrote a poem.  He would always answer 
telling me he loved it, and then 
I would  decide I loved it too. 

Recently, he had an awful fall, sickened,
 and  became too weak and ill 
to attend to me or  any lines of mine.

He died last New Year’s Day. I rhymed 
a final rhyme and sent it to his  grieving 
sons and daughter.

The poem said I hoped his mind at the end, 
had contained no single face or name. (This
was untrue. I had wanted  him to think about 
my poems even then).

I said (and this was so) I hoped he had enjoyed
deep breaths of the air  he had  been struggling  for.

I said I hoped the last door he opened 
and closed would  widen into a graceful space. 

We used to argue, he and I, which I regret.
In my poem I said I hoped no quarrel would  arise
from his final thoughts, only bright daylight, 
followed by a soft, nocturnal fall.

No one has responded to the poem, 
which I do not love at all.