The daffodil I picked up
was at your house
the one I felt as I strolled by Hoyt and Sackett.
You made me laugh
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.