Marrow

In the marrow of my bones,
I feel the pull of sarsen stones,
upright like ancient dominos,
first rays of dawn,
first call of crows,
and you
at the altar with a goat.
Hold it down!
Expose the throat!
A spray of red on grassy tomb,
as the service broadcasts
over Zoom.

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A version of this poem first appeared on Bluesky. Whispered into the acoustic sensors of the sleeping dreaming android, it prompted the electric sheep to generate one more tomorrow…

© 2025 Greg R. Fishbone, generated by MidJourney as a derivative work of the poem, "Marrow" by Greg R. Fishbone