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Thursday, March 28, 2013

The daffodil I picked up
was at your house
the one I felt as I strolled by Hoyt and Sackett.
You made me laugh
playfully whispering
the scent of roses and solidarity in my ear.
Why is it that I'm still flooded
with torrid rain as I listen to your heart?
Quenching the chest
with the drink of what's to come.
Looking for sprouts
in the damp Brooklyn earth.

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