My Skin, My Heart

I am preoccupied with angels:
their fur and pulse, their eyes on me.
They speak in verbs.
Their words for air are furl and sunder,
for stone they say abide.
They watch my daughter sleep
in a box of rags. They purr and tick
like old furnaces. The baby stirs.
Keen, one whispers,
a word that means
both cut and light.
Hover, the other answers,
slow as snow, open as paper.