Contemplating dying,
I'm not concerned about “my self”;
I feel sorry for my hands,
sorry for my feet;
for everything in between!
I often sit back and listen
to the madrigal of my hands;
its ten voices,
and I watch, attentively, my feet
with their ten little drummer boys
pounding the path
I listen, in awe,
to their chief;
the bass drum
inside the rib cage;
insistent, fierce, enduring
and I hear the wheezing
of the rivers and streams
of the cardiovascular matrix,
while from afar,
inside my Vipashyana practice,
I see my thoughts butterfly about
over the summery meadow of mind,
which registers, in the distance,
a motorbike gearing up
out on the highway
in a remote auditive likness
of a housefly behind the curtain
deep
in someone's recollection
of childhood,
and downstairs Glenn Gould is humming
over his keyboard
where The Goldberg Variations reside