They are not angels
though they have the hollow look
of beings bred on ether. There’s an air
of cool removal from your life, the hawk’s
indifference to the hare’s terror.
You see it in their palms, raised casually
against the fresco’s surface, as to glass
of submarine or spacecraft, and you see
it in their eyes, oracular, that let you pass
alone to unknown agony. The song
they sing is merely time.