Should an octopus, blue or black at will, just slip through a chink in the rubble
An erstwhile stoma
for only the most devoted
of smokers set
counting he-loves-me-not bones
in the weeping-wall girdles of
hunch-hoarded, hand-drawn china—
What’s the shape of your sadness,
what soft, jig-sawed hole
can you cram it through,
in or out? In
etching this
into the back
of a soft-pack,
glutted with
black-lipped butts, I
avert my eyes hunched
back in that cracked concentration,
that soap bubble bokeh focus smudging
the sun to a grumbling ink blot, far
and away from what lithe, smiling,
crystalline sky that a cool June
day is confronted with, seeking
in scratchy black matchsticks
all the resolve and grace
all these trees are traced with—
8 thoughts on "Should an octopus, blue or black at will, just slip through a chink in the rubble"
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I don’t quite see the connection of the poem with the title, Goldie, but I love the poem. Bokeh! Bokeh!
Love an octopus poem. What’s the shape of your sadness?
an octopus smoking cigarette(s)
eight at a time.
what a delightful image.
(implied) circle of ash–
in response to your title:
Your octopus slid
across the floor, slipped
into a pipe, and
swam out to the sea.
Yes, an octopus poem! You have inspired me. I’d like to write an octopus poem. I love “what is shape of ypur sadness” and “scratchy black matchsticks.”
Yes! These are my favorite lines too:
“what is shape of your sadness” and “scratchy black matchsticks.”
love:
What’s the shape of your sadness
That’s beautiful, Goldie!