And how bones it is to write a frail poem
Murder how murder it is on gun
On the dare and watch the bloods
Go by and how frail it is to be misled
Inside a death and how frail it is to be
Death as it murders inside the house
And how frail it is shaped like a pig
To be filled with hair and murder
And on the street and how frail it is to see the bloods
Inside the bones and knife and how frail the knife is
Killing at night in their trashy way
And burning through the haunts and
How frail is the night shrinking of the bells and
Distant knives and how frail it is to write this poem
As I fall to fall I’m the distant knives in my fish and in flame
The knives in death riding bloods to bones at night

Oliver, fourth grade, downtown summer camp