the distance from here to anywhere
the idea of
your child disappearedthe faces of the men
who would take himbodies buried
and dug up again
and the way the sun has
no meaning in decemberthe first storm of the season
hanging just above the hills
like a shroudall of these empty spaces
where there should be warmththis 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 columbinei am sorry that the killers
took their own lives
before someone else couldi refuse to apologize to anyone
expecting something as
obscene as mercy
