Look at the edge of the sky, she says

Where the angels observe us

Record our flaws and

Mistake us for monsters, sometimes



And then look in those buildings

There are psychologists who do the same thing

They peer from their windows, spectacles fogged

Fingers poised around parchment



What makes them different, he asks

Well, apart from where they live?

I don’t really know

I guess, maybe, they are human



And what about you?

Does that make you an angel?

She smiles, responds with lips half-closed

For you, I always will be.