The poor are many
and so—
impossible to forget.
No doubt,
as day breaks,
they see the buildings
where they wish
they could live with their children.
They
can steady the coffin
of a constellation on their shoulders.
They can wreck
the air like furious birds,
blocking out the sun.
But not knowing these gifts,
they enter and exit through mirrors of blood,
walking and dying slowly.
And so,
one cannot forget them.
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