When We Eat the Marrow

Nicolas Bock

Incandescent distractions level the question
again, “Does this really matter?” I will place

myself here, so you can keep track of me
but first I must tell you of nothings and I

will not hold your hand, you will not
find the floor. A voice has no body

that’s him; his pallor mirrored in dark
gradation, nearly absent and tiredly

focused on me. Not only him, but her -
myriad hers haphazardly placed, many of

both embodying the current THEM. The place
is large, as you can clearly see, there are

probably arches and maybe
a column or two (or four).

I am alone, facing this many, and again light
is the sole fixture I fasten to, annexing lumens

like some mad candle-powered moth.
                                     The room is brighter

than me, conspicuously so, marginal shadows
outlining my withering profile in a penumbra

of commonness. A voice has no body, how then
have I fucked these neutral shades, how then
will I speak?


Stay with me and these nostalgias will pass.