He compresses all the music
he owns into a tiny device
no thicker than a wafer.
Now, as he freezes his ass
off on a road outside Butte,
he puts on his earbuds
and dials up a chant by
Hildegard von Bingen
that warms his bones.
He sees her briefly,
all sex and wimple,
pouring out the beats
of her 12th century heart.