The injured octopus commandeered my limbs. It furrowed a crown of iron from its sponged dome but I felt no cruelty in the creature’s cage. The wall of its body was more an annoyed wave. I was being guided, rained into a room where a tiny moon arose. I was being aired out, not raided. I touched the closest tentacle and felt a burned down candle. We were sharing an urn that was groomed for the cliffs. Mute and molting, we grabbed talons. We were born in a town around the block from our remains. We felt sad for our hands. We had loved our lost moat.


The pupa collaged its rust. It sought a new hum. Renamed soot hid in the drifts of its skin. It got microphone mind. It plumed.


The mirage’s antonyms congested our antennae. Its ions addressed our grains. It said, The history of a stem is another stem. We reified our streams. We removed our atavistic lice with chips of flint. Isotopes eroded the scales from our skin.


Whenever the diagrammed ear relents, forgetting its sound is the pupa’s purpose. Bulbous, twinned in the grasp, an O eggs itself, snowing.

Eric Baus is the author of The To Sound (Wave Books, 2004), Tuned Droves (Octopus Books, 2009), Scared Text (Colorado State University Press, 2011), and The Tranquilized Tongue (City Lights, forthcoming 2014). His series of commentaries on poetry audio recordings, Notes on PennSound, were recently published in Jacket2. He lives in Denver.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s