Impressionism

Parisian streets

Wet with prismatic water;

The lamps bright

Flickering off of pools—

 

Walk cross paths.

Paint splatters high,

Mounds high—

Real miracles my road map—

Like a globe, running fingers down the mountains.

 

Had it not been a miracle

Suppose the book with legged Seraphim

Would suffice for my knowledge of miracles.

 

We cross paths many times.

There in the Parisian streets.—

Mounded high, over it my finger goes

Like touching a globe.

You want it, don’t you?

I do believe since the legged Seraphim

Inspired you

Those who sung in your dream

The Spanish hymn,

“We, We, We,”

I do suppose they are likely to give it to you.

I do not want you visions

But they are now mine

Because you stole from me.