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.