the octopus has plummeted into a syndicated soap
where people really say things like I still LOVE you
I’m just not IN love with you the poor proprioception
in its arms makes it difficult to change the channel
but it likes basketball when it’s sad
so finds the Heat game and roots for them to lose
by the time they do these things are gone: the contents
of a three dollar bottle of shiraz any sound or motion
from the floor above the certainty of its every speck of gravel
etched into the octopus’s excellent long-term memory
not hope but a share of its invertebrate dignity
from scrunching itself into impressive contortions
to pass through imaginary holes
in invisible walls two fingers
of amaretto it hopes the other won’t miss
not hope per se but the way hope held
the house around it like a warm solution
through which one swam without a thought
