We see them as clouds thinning on our floor clearing cyclone husks from the lungs of tender, thirsty orphans, tattooed with numbers. We ejaculating oak, three parts inert, entail rainfall on their cemeteries, lumps of sugar and bite-sized seeds that grow into gradient runes. We acknowledge with this, their subtle labyrinthine contraptions in a wild aviary of cries, a perennial wreckage, balanced, overlooking a ruin.
