Heaven rolls its carpet for you;
has not been the same since you.
Harlem of the Mind—all dandies
and magical as first kisses and a tree stump
felt up like hips figure eight-ing in summer midis
you are its spell.
And there is no place to fit the smoke
gathering, rising, and absorbing like fingertips
blackened by every guess I might’ve made
for what you would be.
You’ve never had to ask for attention
and were missed for merely existing in any space
other than Here, wherever it was for the time.
Legends’ witnesses declare your hands
never touched any thing without transforming it;
said only that which had never been known until
your utterance; and you casually knew things studied
and obscure enough for framing.
When I wear white bleached as salt in cleansing;
absorb the nemesis of clouds—as close as we can get
to Heaven (as close as I can get to you) before gravity
threatens to keep us, there will be no special carpet
and we may not recognize this new place you’ve made Home.
So we wait and turn your absence into shalom.