Marrow Marrow

Originally posted 4/1/2014.

The soundtrack
of whatever it is
you daily do is
a splintering
that croaks

broken, broken.

Even when you
bite in error
something soft
of your own, your
tongue or lip,
you can only taste
the meaty iron in it.

Broken, broken.

You’ve chewed nothing
but hard old remains
for so long,
their spongy bone-hearts
are all that you know.

Broken, broken;
marrow candy,
marrow coffee;

marrow greens,
marrow marrow
in the corners
of your mouth:

in the corners
of your mouth
a song of vulture, 

carcass bird.