moby no

Forty-something below,
            The past becomes an octopus.
      I’ve seen it and too-tendrilled know:
  She’s an inky, unblinking escape artist—
      Need a trink to get near without drowning.

      But let her veer deep to where sixgills go.
  Pike-skewer a star, instead, my dear;
      Sail ne’er to see your sun downing—
            On hook-n-spear, stick any good
Worth a farewell-follow.

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    Poetry: Relict
        https://windstrewn.com/2019/09/18/relict/