20/12/2025
Small piece. Long life.
Leftovers looping, back they all came -
from hands and from mouths,
from streets without names.
Once was a cap. Once was rope.
Melted and knotted and twisted just so,
no mold, no twin, no way it should go.
Now it’s a TANGLE -
Clip it. Grip it.
Let it hangle.
A key for your keys, a swing for your phone,
It’s on your body, and it won’t sit alone.
A sculpture to wiggle with you,
always in motion, always askew.
A moving shape to carry with you
The past still peeks.
The future shrugs.
Made by hand.
Made by chance.
Blink once—it’s gone.
That’s Blobb’s dance.
