Meditation on the Jellyfish

Heaved on shore,
sea debris—
they could be transparent satchels,
tiny spaceships,
the afterbirths, or
ghosts congealed on sand.
Too many to count
and still fresh,
like the tops of toadstools,
connected dot-to-dot,
glory in their alien strangeness—
fogged convex mirrors
that need a haaaaaaaa-hard breath
and a wipe,
or headlights,
or interior of the heart,
or unstrung prayer beads,
dropped
a bead here, a bead there, there
and there.