Octopus

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I turn on the TV, hear the chatter and buzz

of the news, consonants and vowels crackle.

I look in the mirror: eight days since I shaved,

Evident insomnia. My face is all scattershot,

some bit of a dream left in my eyes, a plumb 

line dragging up gods from the deep reach.

From my iris, a swirling bother, a fleck, a drop 

of ink rising in air towards the ceiling, blotting

In a dumbshow of hope; what the sun draws

Into trees and rocks and abandoned works.

The blue ink spreads,

An octopus unravels her arms, the black hole

Maw unveiled. In her world of eight paths, 

Every wish is somewhere between my wits, 

floating in aether, suspended. My head fills

With bicycle bells, clicking crosswalks. Edge 

of the room stretches, contracts; true, grace 

Is not everything. Octopus descends, sinks, 

suckers expanding, gripping at a slight crack

In the wall, moving spider-like, a tender grasp

On the molding, firm grip on the dresser-top, 

Taking me into her vise, ticklish, blessed arms 

Running swiftly down my spine. Her beak snaps 

Open my jaw, she scuttles down throat, curse

Upon curse finds no air.

I am full of questions—I reach into night, fall

Slow—in Cosmic baptism I lose my sins, walk

Upward into mysterious name—my own.