Oh Umbrellasare 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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