the pure shrug of latent destruction each arm
uncoiled toward some wind-ripped barge-cut
surface leagues above where heaven is
a stormfield spread atop the undermurk
each limb raised to the apex of its parabola
as if to sweep back and crush and bind
and not to cradle a face not appearing capable
of streaming out leaves and shimmying
through seasons what the hell the octopus thinks
to step into the yard and face one’s petrified mirage
its radial symmetry overblown and frozen in the pose
of all the damage it might have done
the octopus is small before it would fit
inside it refuses to step toward it cannot imagine
touching its skin when the octopus holds very still
you'd never know how far it has come
to be forgiven what it can do
to the shell of a mollusk what it has left to rot
