Rams

Quite independently of angiograms,
I know your chest. It makes a hollow sound:
Electrocardiograms can't be found
Elsewhere that match that noise. It's like two trams
That pass each other slowly, or three rams
Pawing at footholds on some frozen ground
Where they expect to butt heads, to be crowned
King of the Mountain, Ruler of the Lambs.

Your chest emits a grumbling, grinding thump,
And blood flows, somewhere deep inside; your veins
Sound like the passing of commuter trains,
Scraping along the track, feeling each bump.
Your heart is like an overflowing dump,
Replete with rats, old filthy clothes, and chains.