They, closet Pythagoreans, say music is all:
Music in the sheen of jagged metal,
In the sanguine iridescence of broken glass,
In the sudden jolt that causes teeth to bite tongue bloody,
Splintered bone and blood-streaks, blood-spots
writing the staffs, the clefs, the notes, of rending rails.
But where will it end?
Where will this shattered body,
vaulting through space
trailing tattered limbs like a comet’s tail
Come to rest?
— James R. Cowles