there are many holes too wide and deep to be filled by eyes they are stepped around gingerly of heels placed with pains taking care a blind dance of fissured eyes averted of shaking hands circumscribing the void piecemeal at this pit of botched communiqué silent static and dead children no one looks up while lead keeps falling from the sky.
Some tragedies are beyond my scope of empathy. Some rationales exceed my capacity to set aside love. If I can’t write about I try to write around, to show the shape of what I can’t describe. This poem could apply to any gun massacre, but today it is for Newtown, CT.