Octopus cyanea


Across the ocean floor, we glide; limbs skail,

now twirl: a pour of ink, Medusa’s hair,

a showgirl’s razzle-dazzle frills, our trail

of tangled tentacles a comet’s flare.


And then we disappear. The gaud, all gone,

as if we’ve spiraled into gossamer

so fine we can’t be seen. But it’s a con:

look close. The magic lies in ocular


deception – skin so deft at mirroring

the technicolor sea that we can be

reef, sand, wreck, Starry Night, whatever thing

we want; invisible or garish; free.


All praise the gift of hiding in plain sight.

Under that bushel, now, quick – hide your light.