glide without the matter

of bone, brains, heart. They flick

and do not know pain.

We measure, find them, and they

do not understand us. They bloom

and deflate like crinoline

space stations. This is silence

or worship. When we dive,

we want more than the ritual

of science. Surely the jellyfish

are the moons, the femme fatales

of the sea, these stingers, these

medusae that coil, dazzle,

and drift from our hands

and cameras.