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.

 

 

K.A. HAYS