Into the scrapyard with you,
into the brambles, into the pile
of crushed saxophones. Try it
in there for awhile, without women
and without music. Eat the branches
that whisper through the scraps
from buried trees.
And there will be a rhythm never heard
felt through the body, through the imagined
pillows, through the screaming underground
and high above ground, seen from an airplane:
you will die there in your own branches,
cast onto your reaches from the molten core,
through the frustrated soil and the bright
silver diapers, metal bent and pinned
by metal around a tight and hungering body.