Like so many ears opening, then squeezing shut
greedily upon news of something long expected
that, having come, turns out not important,
meek companies of effulgent jellyfish
soar through floodlit rays of brilliant cobalt.
Fists of inwardness who unclench to grasp
at the glassed-in blue that sieves through, they shiver,
bloom. Umbrellas buoyed by an updraft,
bridal veils dangling lace strings of bubbles, they rise,
then sink softly: a numinous snowfall, the ghosts
of underwear that fell to floors centuries before,
trailing filaments of ribbons in their wake.
They’ll never see the sun or speak a word.
Desire keeps rippling their transparent skin.