Umbrella

Here the wind is a country.
Rain flags hills.

Trees refugee
the borders of their creeks.

The wind’s air
the body doesn’t breathe,

The body that’s not the body,
the you that cannot be

Just a window, more or less a door
a storm left opened

As if you were never here,
returning to the you who left

Her umbrella here,
the favourite one I can’t find.

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