Shades of color steep in the hot summer atmosphere
Like a menagerie of wheeled tea-leaves...
They float, as rays bounce beneath their chassis.
I can only suppose they feel safe from
Thick, invisible clouds
With their radios on;
Their electronic tumors blasting crackled voices into their brains...
A start, a stutter; a race has started.
Their eyes do not see me.
Their thoughts will not perceive me.
United in their motion,
Separated by their destination.
The spectrum cast upon my eyes shuffles them
Between panes of glass,
Moist air
and the Ether.
Ghostly, transparent shades projected
(Equally hurried yet juxtaposed)
Upon the trembling wavelengths of extending branches and paper-thin hands.
The ghosts and the tea leaves and the hands;
Seamlessly bound,
Without their knowing.
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