you stand, fist raised,
against the mountain’s face.
each strike an echo
that only you embrace.
you call it yoga.
i call it poking the moon.

so drop the hammer,
left or right.
let your hand
become a breath,
a ghostly command.
a bite could hollow night.
night could turn to moon-fierce,
piercing,
bit by bite.

poke the moon.
not to win,
but to feel the night
easy-breezy
let you in.

the obstacle?
just stubborn clay,
mortared with old artifacts.
the real wall’s
what you won’t sway.
try swaying yourself.
now!
you’ll end up poking,
loving poking,
until you lick the moon.

now watch:
the mountain,
the moon,
and your mind
(call it fountain.
no need to poke
the rugby-soccer divide)
are one.
you poked.
left no sign.
good news: i do that too.
(three and four? another subject.)

move by your own demand.
"i’ve earned this right!"
the mountain breathes,
unmoved by might.
who’s true? who’s "i write"?
a definition
with one option:
your might.
one might? maybe not enough.
so call it ultimate might
might-deities of might.
the kind that sheds burdens,
lets you poke the moon
without raising
an eyelash.
(you’ll feel zen.
i won’t care.)

but look.
your shadow,
your meadows,
long and lean,
stretch toward
the unseen:
the moon,
a silver smirk,
a round woman’s cheek,
a place untouched
by force
or the forces
you came to seek.

bonsoir et bonne nuit, quand même.
i’ve poked the moon for years.
now go.
poke the moon,
and let it poke you back.