Ten fathoms deep in darkness

Octopus slithers and swerves

in and out of the crevices,

escaping his fate as hors d'œuvre.


With deadly ink, he blackjacks,

meanwhile detaching an arm

that wriggles and distracts

with undulating charm.


Attachment's light for this octo-

autonomous being who

like the skink and the gecko

has bodily parts that unscrew.


Sometimes I'm the Octopus,

I have his knack: I too unsnap

the ill-formed or too zealous—

the ones who grow too attached.


I forget what they have to teach

of who I am, lessons now gone

well beyond my cruel arm's reach—

their gift of ineffable song.