poem 3000 miles long

found four days later
hiding beneath a desk in
his mother's back yard

has nothing to say about
the bodies of
his wife or children

blood on his shirt and
all of the reasons to
kick him to death where
he cowers

the way it would feel
so fucking good

the way the
temperature drops to
twelve below zero on a
saturday afternoon in

this dull pain where
the stitches are

a pale blue sky
faded to white above the
houses and powerlines

the plastic bags caught
in chain link fences

nothing sacred and
nothing beautiful and
what i forget is how
this man's story ends

how his last days
are spent

why my own children
should love me

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