Electric booming static-shattered electron waves
plus and minus in the rush of air
hot from concrete
to the sky cold from Spring
rains in a kiss to the City's streets.
It was May, but April.
Trees yellow-new-green wetwashed bright
from summerstorms of lightning-warmed rain and thunder
hung over the street dipped in arty camera angles of French movies
beautiful through colored filters -
yellowhite, that narcissus/daffodil/Easter shine
about the film quality of my dream on the boulevard
that was only Sixth Avenue with the French bakery on the corner,
the butterfly, warm croissants,
buying Sunday papers and dark, new coffee,
tulips and lilacs, peonies and iris,
pussywillow for the sill of the white-washed French doors
open all the Paris afternoon in my apartment
over the Arch de Washington Square
and the Champs d' Bleecker Street.