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.
