The subject produces, lures, deters, falls somewhere
between pleroma and fur, an interim unlike any other.
To pass the time, the subject gulps the day
to its glassy bottom and sees itself there, sweating
the silence until the tap hisses amber the distance
between erasure and reflection. The subject
exercises instinct, a kind of feral praxis. The subject
nuzzles pixels, holds them close, to gauge
the galaxy’s coolness, appears to embrace the voyeurism
inherent in its captivity. Instead of wallowing
in animal glory like all the world’s a watering hole,
the subject has instead learned to feel alone
absolutely anywhere, just as the octopus
blushes coral exactly.