into this morning, gazing at the blue’s half moon,
and the jet sketching a line through it, loose,
puffing out, dissolving,
I think thoughts warp that same way, my perspective
more puffed out and more warped than I can sense,
but I do sense some warping and some puff,
and the shagbark hickory’s peeling itches
my own arms and the red berries in the kousa dogwood
help me feel too like a ripened sphere––
imagining into plant form
the consciousness opens a little,
lets in a little more ease.