Glasses.
Don't take it personally.
I've got a pair too.
There is no eye to catch.
They come in uniforms.
They cross bridges built on cement arches.
They dip their lights.
They wave.
They have just read a book.
They have never read a book.
They have just turned from the TV.
They have just turned from the table or bed.
It is morning, and they pour one by one out of the door.
They are real glass and thin and the wind is blowing.
The sky is racing.
They come to drink from the steel fountain.
They come to work on the carpet.
They come past the doors and frosted glass.
They turn in the window at the end of the hall, in amber light
90 floors from the ground, walking on empty evening.
They pay the electric bills.
They owe money.
All the stars turn in vast courses around them unnoticed.
They vote.
They buy their tickets.
They applaud.
They go into the elevator thinking of money
with the quiet gleam of money.
They bear arms.
They go on wheels they are without color.
They come in clothes out of closets.
They fly above the Earth reading papers.
They come after the bulldozers.
They wait under imported leaves.