Newspaper stories of lifeless bodies fished out of
the gutter: too many now every day to number.
Their wrists are bound, their mouths sealed
with tape. Before they died, who had their number?
Along the canals, a rash of deep green vines:
their arms bear yellow flowers, too many to number.
At the height of summer, the flowers give way
to fruit. The bloated fall— some number.
The rest are allowed to live awhile, then are reaped to assuage
hunger. The problem is with hunger that knows no number.
The bigger the maw, the bigger the hunger. It won’t stop:
what can’t be satisfied has no belief in limits, in numbers.
In response to Via Negativa: Issue.