I require angels—
                                             Antonin Artaud

Two angels, weary, find a coffee shop,
order black coffee with their perfect minds.
A baffled server sets white mugs behind
a limp flower. The rising sunlight stops
above the bloom. A laughing man mops
the sidewalk. The angels send him tired joy
and stare at the black surface of their cups
still seeing marked doors they counted, annoyed,
all night. They don’t like knowing who will die
each day. Their long wings—folded, undeployed—
sag. They know that the coffee’s only a symbol
and they are tired of those, too. One gambles
on a scone, dropping coins as a decoy
sin. They both wish they were able to lie.

– Mark Mitchell