Plures by Sonya Taaffe
None of the dead can be counted and named
infinitely, the Romans’ majority
so much more enduringly crowded beneath the earth
than we who weigh so briefly on it.
I could rake a lifetime’s ash and not calculate Hiroshima.
Sooner than I could reckon this year’s reaping
I would run out of candles, pebbles, blood.
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