Untitled, #49 (I'm cheating cause it's an older poem...)

I hope to fall down to my death like a pleasant cadence.
Like a symphony,
an early Beethoven, say,
I finish and that’s it! It's not the end, though,
that's important.
It’s the falling that is important to me.

I suppose I won’t realize it.
Or perhaps I will,
and that’s all the better.
I will know what to say at least.
I will probably want a glass of water
in a blue cup
and want to know how fast
the water runs,
if it babbles like a voice.