Part II

The Octopus came to you in a dream
and touched you.
He lit you a cigarette. He said:
but you didn't hear him.
His accent was thick,
His words further impaired by
the clacking of His beak,
which you fixated on.
You wanted to listen.
He was telling you the future
which has always interested you.
But you couldn't.
You always have been ungrateful and
it was sinister of him to assume otherwise.
The Octopus queries you.
The musculature around His oily eyes twitch
and you imagine the orbs
rolling without focus.
You wonder, do they move independently?
He could see so much, if he tried.
Do they?
The Octopus eventually tires of you.
He gathers his props and
prepares to leave.
You are saddened.
Even though you don't understand him,
he always seems pleasant enough.
You always enjoy his visits.
As he moves to the door, you
reach your hand out.
You open your mouth.
But he is already gone.