An octopus imagined me as a chandelier
as a swallow rustling free seed from out
the sleep tossed. I’ve been turned onto
the freak out potato a cursive eccentricity
within the vivid mind hold of a well hung
octopus. Had he culled such the pretty
replica out of oats and linen drawers. Has
he turned his thousandth eye inward for
where my breathing pool and sun put to
line clay. And he blew me my drifting ball
exposed. And baking my umbrella weary
of the primordial rain rich and weary of
wedding rice falling. I give leave to this
octopus who sown a packet to rich loam.
He lit a fire that torched my bit of behind.