Harlem in a Clear Red Light

As the day thins, people have turned into images.
They've leapt into the aethers
Like sparks off of the grid,
Like stars that leap like pity
Across these roiling faces
To outline constellations.

The buildings have stopped pretending
That they are of three dimensions.
They are but tones of sunlight
Like the dust in open air.
Everything's invisible
Except what lives in mirrors.

The trees they move too fast now,
Too fast to even see.
The mind moves through the planet
In their leaves.
The majesties of form
Quiver emptily.

How terrified to think this isn't real,
That we can just create it with our eyes,
These perfect harbors and desolate trash
Equally. How pleasing that the world can never see us
Except in shining windows
Of a late, late afternoon.