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In the beginning he had many arms.
Now he bumps along the ocean's floor,
a lone tentacle slowly heaving,
sniffing out the madrepores.
"You say I vent to hide or threaten.
It's not so. Ink is connection.
I vent to embrace. I vent to hold you.
Armless, I yearn, I stay in motion.
My ink is thicker than your water, but
I am so small, a fist without fingers,
and you are everywhere. I do what I do.
I can't swim. I don't sleep. What I do is linger,
wait for the proper current. When it comes
– it is here, now – I flood the deep with longing.”
Volume 43, no. 1, 2014