Watch a Tamarind Leaf Move

Watch a tamarind leaf move diurnally
and a vigilante octopus’ skin will be squid-like.
Thermal and chewy. Foam.
He’s contingent upon tentacles
measured in units of elephant ribs
which once lived in a sack of skin—
a type one might classify as human palm-like
sewn loosely and a smile leaking ink
where otherwise a tusk might be.

“Does the leaf belong to the tree or the day?” asks the vigilante.
“Who owns patience of this species?”

“If the tree belongs to the ocean,” the octopus says,
“my suctions might claim
its tangly skeletal branches
belonging once to a bag of leaves alive
the kind you might find in a pile
or blown by machinery
or fluff for body bag. Pillow-stuffing.
And when the black bags sit all in a row
they are pod-like. Boasting eager seeds
whose meat might be sour, but sugary.”