An Octopus The octopus is a living grass, a thrifty one, I mean—though it will take all your fingers out indefinitely. It swims without style with a touch of the world unlike anything most of us will understand.

The air floats well there, high up above, its greenish clasp alone allows for renovation and a strange superstitious hold while it exudes oldness just as the bark does on the trees—

One claw of a former life seems to uncoil away from those who see from the ribs of life; it’s windy currents, while in the other life sleeps, attempts a movement of cure.

If it turned back to the surface and behaved without them entirely, touches would extend outward into the neighbor’s backyard, stretching endlessly in a helpless wondering. No thought could compare to them.

• Marianne Moore