From a planked position.

Troubadours clap out: one, two, three, four

before launching their song.

Choreographers snap: five, six, seven, eight.

⊙

Í, silently, count

one, two, three

four

five.

⊙

{Inhale and move.

An animal playing her lungs,

with the discipline of the earnest open-amateur.

Done for pleasure and not profit.}

⊙

A fugue of breath.

Comingling.

There is no room for thought when stood upon only one foot’s toes.

There is just getting oxygen to muscles without falling too hard.

Repeat until the body is too tired to not sleep.

It is not always elegant, and sometimes,

it becomes less so as the progression continues.

Irrelevant.

The point is the intent to doing;

and, the resultant action.

You’ve got to enjoy

the ride

until, abdomen and sides ache from maintaining

unnaturally natural postures.

⊙

It is in this ephemeral space from which

Í best perceive the flowing visions.

Pure restraint,

Time in mind.

Coalescing confluence of the conjunction

of this intersection of dimensions.

Planes upon planes with turtles

all the way down.

⊙

A whirling dervish aside a spiraling top.

Spinning pips and mumbly peg.

I do what I can to pass the time.

Only boring people suffer from boredom.

Says the voice called: don’t stop now.

So, í drop into a planked position.

A push up posture slowly dropped into an upwards arch.

Face presented to the moon.