Little Song for Pythagoras' Rubber Band

To breathe like you diamond masters

of self-control. Inhale all. Exhale pure

form. Detached, not reeking of ten other poets

who blew better progressions first. To endure

the long haul armored with blazing sonnets,

or symmetrical stanzas, a marathon sound

sprinting-somewhere beyond Salvation Army,

or magnetic Americans, lost or found.

But always the slaughterhouse detours: beat

of pickled pigs' feet, stampeding distractions.

Trotters squealing, "dried blood." Sour breath

piles up. Thick scabs clot white sheet.

O, rivery music, for once don't echo some attraction;

some dance down reversing waterfalls choking to death.