Machine Shop for Humans

In rows, on gurneys separated by curtains.
Low chirps, erratic lines, collective 
beeping. Are you here for the apple 
grown large in your throat, the flushed 
ladders climbing up your thighs; the furry 
moth trapped in the elevator of your windpipe, 
the tattoo artist hiding in your blood? A nurse 
attaches a device to the tip of your finger. 
Another threads a clear liquid into your 
vein. What day is it? You count with her 
in reverse from ten, and wind up in some 
backforest where you'll sink without 
resistance into the moss. How much 
time were you there? You were opened
like a book, cut into a cross-section,
made porous as a sheet of cheese. Now
your hip bone sings like a flute.