Cynthia Belmont
The Jellyfish of Boston

Jostling in their blank black tank, electric
and separate as thumbs, they are dozens
of nightlight bulbs stashed in a drawer
in the basement. They are not waiting,

they do not envy the giant turtle paddling
around and around and around
his one idea. Like the rest of Boston,
they wouldn't be what they are without the water:

streetlamps bob in swells of mist, the train
is an eel rippling from river to harbor,
the runners cluster and scatter, floating up
the green crests, pumping wet dusk, shedding salt.