Oh Umbrellas


are what we’ll miss

most in heaven—

your hair dry, your shoes wet

in a warm June pour


I can carry the math

it takes to make a dome

in a small coat pocket—


every prayer

under the cupola

darkening the sky

by a shade


Oh ingenuities—

the rods and riders

the clack of the latch


What will I do there

without my hands upon

your summer face?


What will I do without

what I’ll miss most—


your hair turning stormy

as you cross

the flooding avenue

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