the distance from here to anywhere

the idea of
your child disappeared

the faces of the men
who would take him

bodies buried
and dug up again
and the way the sun has
no meaning in december

the first storm of the season
hanging just above the hills
like a shroud

all of these empty spaces
where there should be warmth

this man with a shovel and
bloody hands
but no memory of the act

no idea of
how many miles he drove
before he began making crosses from
strips of duct tape
and i am growing tired of the need to
lay blame for columbine

i am sorry that the killers
took their own lives
before someone else could

i refuse to apologize to anyone
expecting something as
obscene as mercy

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