does nothing. You
cannot put that on. You can
not turn that off. It rolls over
into the next year, like a dog

waiting for a scratch
on his belly. Chasing a tale
is like chasing a breeze. It blows
up the tree of the old oak. Like

wearing smoke for a coat. It
does not warm. A nameless
face in the crowd. This makeup is
a narrative screaming out

loud with no resound. Nobody
grows. Nobody dies. It's sits
like a beehive minus the bees
and honey. The box rots in

the sun. The drawers spun
with dust and spilled
promises. Broken crusts and
olive branches.