Like Christ, you were a better friend
to me than I to you;
this and endured the defects of my amity:
What else could you?
From my comfortable vantage I could call
your episodes dramatic;
Was my heart toward you at all —
was it fictive, or pragmatic?
How could I know your life so soon would
find a portal to its egress?
My unbelief could count you frail,
but mortal not confess.
Death brings us hard things to address;
and time, so little progress.