In a development that will surprise absolutely no one who has ever tried to keep track of anything, a poet has taken up the grim task of tallying the dead. The poet, whose name we are not given (perhaps because they have become one with the numbers), reports that the dead keep multiplying, which is inconvenient for someone trying to maintain an accurate count.

The poet wakes each morning with a singular mission: to count the dead. They tally today's dead, yesterday's dead, and, in a bold move, attempt to tally the dead from last year, only to lose them. It's a Sisyphean task, and the poet knows it. "What even matters?" they ask, which is a fair question when your daily routine involves trying to put faces to the deceased while also trying to hide the numbers under paper.

The house is quiet, except for the sound of counting. The poet covers themselves in numbers, trying to keep still, but the daffodils outside insist on blooming, which is just rude. A man in the house asks, "What are you doing?" The poet, naturally, says prayers and tries to anchor the dead with faces, because that always works.

The poet condemns the dead for their utter defenselessness, which seems harsh, but grief makes people say things. They spare no numbers, counting both the dead and the about-to-be-dead, because why not? When life takes more away, the poet keeps the dead inside, which sounds both poetic and deeply uncomfortable.

Eventually, the poet moves their hands as if counting the dead, altering them in the process, which is a skill we'd all like to learn. But the counting continues, through morning light and thick rugs, because what else is there to do? The poet concludes that counting is a way to manage, even if it doesn't actually help. And that, dear readers, is the state of things.