It was hiding in the pile of leaves outside my window, months and years, ever since there's been windows.
Now it's out in the open.
Now it's closer.
To the window.
To us.
The nerve.
Of that ball.
That basketball.
It's moved or been moved.
The top-side that faced the sun all these months is bleached the color of sand.
Like a beach.
Bleached beach-y.
And still it faces skyward.
The nerve.
I've got my eye on you, ball.
All of it. The whole eye.
On you.

Love,
the dead minotaur