At Flossenberg, by Bob Elliott

    At Flossenburg

In spite of August heat this afternoon
dewdrops cling to the centres of upturned leaves.

Here, what must count
is not the number of un-numbered graves.
We need
stronger arithmetics, a finite calculus,
for we dare not
accept this heap of ash and bone
as top and bottom of our life and death.

The dead are ordered; were, as ordered
buried by their survivors, who were not
of course, permitted to survive.

Their quietness
warps into shrieking silences
of excised tongues, of bodies smashed
by granite tendered for piano-wire.

Along hushed paths, the quarry-dust
settles on violets, dries my throat
to self-disgust.  A dozen tiny frogs
flip through the shaded grasses.

Taut  wire still resonates.