Octopus

Innocence that never mimics
indoctrination of an intact wax
running linear lightning through
pigeon destination, un-scrolling
late roads smelling of
misshapen streets,
shade and fish.

Are the veins of an octopus, a foam of laughter
wearing sombreros? The octopus,
the signs of carrot-
fireflies, their maps
flooded pyramid colors
their faces fall off,
and their paper-tentacles uncurl, grieve,
swim to the foot of their market
in the morning coiling earnest sobs
in the doors of closed anchors
as sweet clouds kneel.

Their cut pieces explain: eyes of an absent
continent, they are spilled, forever sunk
in the secrets of water drops:
tunnels where their shadow-people-halves emerge,
octopus-stairs advise…
(submerged, unfortunate, formations of
determinant centers in the
air), the most nameable object,
kisses towards bottom of the surface.

At midnight, with wet hands,
someone knocks on the whisper of the door,
and I hear the voice of an octopus, profound voice,
an imprisoned voice within the
veins of a sequoia-injured water fan-blade, where roots
sink their fists to bed their bitter rays

into the disorderly scissors
of tomorrow, hit in the
memory-center, mouth
banishing;
muffled heart.

What do you want, fragile hostage
of corners? Containing rooms
of fortified angles? A shattered
realm surrounds.

Dark and light fibers cry
eyeless-rivets, coiled-energies,
river of transformers
and essential rhizome
branching sun, caressing
open the lies of night, here I am
listening to secrets;

sleeplessness hollows loneliness to a dull-fog
heading towards the middle of a sunken glimpse—
where it grows in me and communicates
telepathic light and the dark-pink folds
of earth.

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