The patterned sphere
It has no grip on form
Or happy home napping in selfhood
It is watching, sometimes through a bedsheet, but it is alive
Sundowning trips circle the globe, bound to confines
I'd fan off of this world for a night if I could
A demon and its spinal cord flapping in the wind
Sprayed across the street in front of the house where I grew up
It's like I was with me then, but not fully me
I have no grip on form