rain (without an umbrella)

Before I forget the feeling of a thunderstorm,
I will re-live it:

water, warm and curious
a first kiss
on my arm and eyelid
my cheek bone and slide
fingertip stream down my neck;

and if you are
without an umbrella,
still inside, quiet soul, water-bucket heart
you can piece the falling sky
frame by frame
and hold the white
around rain boots and lowered heads:
all looking down and skipping cracks

to the delicious sip of the sound
of innumerable splashes landing
or rattling the tin can
of monkey-chain summer life
too long in need of release

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