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.