THE OCTOPUS

He shades his teeth with his hands,

his old teeth bitter as pennies.

  From our bed, in the morning, we hear

   the delicate traffic of steam

    from his kettle.  A martin is perched

     on his wind chime.  His children comb

       our apartment with earphones

         and metal detector.

                    *****

The drawbridge pipes

  an orange sky.  The octopus kneels

    and fusses with his shells.  He is a white carnation

      surrounded by squid, like deep-sea hummingbirds.

        Around him the acrid smell of Turkish tobacco,

           his red yarmulka resembles the crazy-quilt domes

             of St. Basil’s.

                       *****

Like any pale hound of the Andes

  he knows where his feet belong.

    His beaked eyes are like tributaries crossing,

      in the first pale light of the God’s Eye.