The Supply Trines

Trackers wrought a perfect trigger from a finger.
Their sound wounds a trick drunk from rabid danger.
I found gun rounds in the anger of riled rangers.
After the winter, a thin figure wrangles the ruin.

The graves gave fervency to an otherwise.
Wholes, ladders; hell, you could be the bones.
Where the mothers died, the widows.
You could be their own children, gone to smoke.

From a sight in a machine. An electronics object.
Of degenerate sophistications far beyond.
Any ordinary measure of weather or purpose.
Their sound ripped bloody findings into numbers.