I can’t be this kind of polyester fleece octopus, besides
when it eventually dies and goes to ground it will shed
plastic fragments through the ecosystem, a stye for a
fish’s eye, a squid’s hairball, a clog in Poseidon’s drain.
But it already lives, this pulsing blue animal, in a glitter stamped Santa bag, with my name on it, now I must care for this heavy extension of the night sky,
deep navy, now I live always at a hotel, cinched at the waist, the furs of the undead thing clinging to my dry skin, crackling with its private energy source, now when I gesture, the tip of my finger holds new power, a light switch, a brief kiss, a minute explosion