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.

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