It takes nine weeks for cement to cure in good weather, and in bad weather, years. It needs to be covered lightly like a sheet over the face with a rebar skeleton buried inside, the steel ribs of wings cast into the settling stone.
The dust is the glue, it creates itself and wonders how birth canals can expand, and in nine months give way to moving parts, to the sponge of organs and cries so thick cicadas wonβt burrow there. Skin is merely
rice paper, not contained by concrete but leaf etchingsβdelicate, illegible scriptures buried in the archives. Bars of light from the window push around the floor there, as if they were substantial, as if they had weight.