The tulips opened, just a tiny bit. All of them at the same time. Their white petals look like belly-feathers of a lost snow bird. The center of each one of the flowers seems to be illuminated by a soft and golden . Dusty antennae gather around a moist stem wearing a three pronged citron colored crown.
They all opened up towards the ceiling, as if it were the sky, as if butterflies could come and pay them a selfish visit.
I look through a mesh onto Broadway. The yellow cabs with their black decor would make such nice insects, if they were only much, much smaller.
Between the houses is a sliver of a freshly rejuvenated tree.
Across the Avenue, two bird families decided to build nests in the metal head-dress of a building. One of the decorative lions must have fallen off years ago, opening a hole that now makes the entrance to a most secure bird home. There are chirping sounds, louder than the 8 lane traffic.
The tulips are moving their heads, as if there were a soft breeze around them. I know that all that makes them move are these very words about them, pushed letter by letter into the warm keyboard of my PowerBook.
Sunday and I want a bike so bad, in a t-shirt just wheel around, ring the bell in random intervals, to make somebody look up then in the greasy warmth of the evening that's slipping around next block and have them think they saw a smile.