An Octopus

The octopus, that He produces in the water, Opalescent, with sultry limbs that grip. His skin, shadow like a harm’s way, Cloaks with lacy iridescence, Gold and amber, blue and green. Hanging in the air, his tentacles roving, Cautiously, brightly, shifting with the tides, Probing the rocks and pools, Where all the starfish lay.

• Marianne Moore