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