When the hors d’oeuvre octopus slid down my throat
it marked the way the better to retrace
its path, when later, putting out the boat,
I tamped it down with champagne to erase
both’s bubbles. Now the creature’s arms refloat.
They, eight and eaten, pulse and flex in place
to wait the wine tide’s ebbing to reblossom.
I should have stayed at home and stuck to ’possum.