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.