The Singers

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. Todd Hearon