Octopus

Of all creatures you are closest to human.

You walk along the deep bottom,

which you love,

which you mirror, continually,

appearance and hunger

intertwined in billions of nerves.

You have no hard parts,

save your mouth.

You do not speak.

You carry ink,

for others as much as for yourself,

for the distinction between the two.

You know well the narrow places.

You reserve countenance for the moment

from which you cannot flee.

Your final talent, in that moment,

is to appear

as nothing recognizable.

And that is what,

in your short dark life,

sometimes saves you.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Jul/Aug 2007
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