An Octopus

This is the time of the octopus’s tentacle, dragging through shadow toward movement. In the screech of its depth, it is truly opulent. And like scales near the water, they shine. Something like desire hefts alone, rolling left. With long flaps of rhythm untap,* something long kin, reptilian pale. A den in the sea folds over quietly, a shelter to where the years rest untethered. The eye is overly bright to navigate— sending threads of long silk across the expanse, just outside the curve of other skins, where layers move along with sound from forgotten waves, the surround as a balm to feed the awakening, with the bated grace the cosmos enacts speed.

• Marianne Moore