from Likely (1996)
Pelvis, that furnace, is a self-fueler:
shoveler of energy into the body.
It is the chair that walks. Swing
that can fire off like a rocket.
It carries the torso, it sets the torso down.
It connects the brother legs, and lets them speak.
Trust the pelvis—it will get everything else there:
pull you onto a ledge, push you into a run.
It is the other spine, prone, like the fallow field.
Here are the constellations of the pelvis:
Drawn Bow, Flame-of-One-Branch,
Round Star, and Down-Hanging-Mountains.
Here is the dress of the pelvis: crescent belly,
and buttocks shaken like a dance of masks.
Forget the pelvis, and you're a stove good for parts:
motion gone, heat gone, and the soup pots empty.