There are eighty six billion neurons
in the average human brain.
More than all the galaxies
in the universe.
I believe that's quite a few more
than my phone.
How many work in concert
to write a symphony?
Determine the difference
in fine-grained degrees
between wine
and vinegar.
Ponder the mysteries
of the flesh and the divine.
To tie a shoe?
To tie a shoe?
Sink a perfect three
off the dribble,
connect in sweet harmony
to savor a blissful kiss?
To simply maneuver a spoon
between thumb and finger expertly,
requires more than a year
in infancy.
What neural multitudes are involved
to summon the faint recollection
of the sandy den my grandpa's dog
dug under the loading ramp
for that old flatbed truck?
How cool it was inside,
where I could hide
from the burning zenith
of the noon time sun.
And now I have to make
a careful effort to put a key
into a lock. The vision from
my one good eye lacks
the stereoscopic precision.
I heard a woman on the radio
whose injuries stripped her mind
of language. Despite her confusion
she felt a encompassing peace.
Perhaps something similar
occurs to masters of meditation.
Oh what would it be like to tell
those eighty six billion neurons
to whisper, to pay attention
only to this, this fulsome moment
suspended between the one just before
and the next one.
It's alright though, to become aware
that my foot's gone to sleep,
and I need to remember the rent's
due tomorrow, and I'll try to summon
the afternoon's bliss when sleep
enfolds me in her arms.
After all there's a whole universe
that lives in my mind.
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