Shreds of clouds are not big enough for hills
To obscure and obviate but are enough vapor
As if they spoke white wet words of passion.
If it rains they will disappear into tea bushes.
They come in your bed rooms,to the fireplace.
Fires in them got put out after British had left.
And there are some cinders and charred logs.
There is no danger of fire singeing the flanks.
They therefore freely move about in the room
Touching older cheeks reminding a lost youth.
In mall they spit vapor to make ghosts of men
In long overcoats, their phones placed in ears
To preempt singing of needless songs in them.
If they enter ears they turn into buzz like bees.