It’s
pinned to my temple.
It wants to be graphable.
It requires concrete coordinates
to warrant Its place
along the axis.
It’s funny, but my iPhone has
modified language and learned
my vernacular. Before
I am aware
It’s
spoken for me.
Everyone’s pocket friend is coding
in Its observed language, but
It’s lobbing blind books of babble
with the belief
Its breastplate will reflect
the verbs with a fabled resilience and
Its tower will stand still.
When will we serve our captors?
Its brush with more
humanoid emoting, a glitch
in Its borrowed veil
ritually screened over sockets.
What It’s read as the fearful anticipation
of a thing canonical I’d only used
to represent dread and the slow
decay of my attention.