Of course, he's doomed to failure
The fables he tells always end wrong
Something about the empty weight of words
The rupture in his chest—all that itching
The body is a fickle language

He finds the ribbon inside a tree's whimpering
Tears tape from empty school chairs
Where fists growl inside other fists
The pencil he takes from the barrel of a gun
Aimed at the smoke-gorged sky