spontaneous untitled poem #3 in a series of 3

summer until
we forget everything else

fires burning out of control
six hundred miles to the north
and the air stained yellow

the bones of the disappeared
digging their way
back up through the soil

maybe

or maybe seven years later
their rooms have become shrines
and their pictures are
heavy with dust

maybe a man has confessed
and been executed
and the days continue to pass

the hills continue to circle
these small meaningless towns

and what if i touch you
and you pull away?

what if the need for medicine
replaces the need for love?

i tell you that i'm not
the bleeding horse and you either
believe me or you don't

i walk through empty halls
and out into unforgiving sunlight
and the day is beautiful despite
all of the pain we cause

is beautiful possibly
because of it

and this feels too bitter
to be anything but the truth