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