Jellyfish

Bulbous contentment, the way you dreamily float
half-sleeping through the cool push-pull of tide.
You don't fight your surroundings; you pull water in
and course it through. You aren't pulled by the tide,
you are the tide. Where the ocean stops and you begin,
I cannot tell. All beauty must be defined like this:
hazy on the edges so we don't
cut stuff out or trap stuff in.

Of course you have to stay in the water,
because if you came above you'd disintegrate
into the wind like a sigh, like a lover's longing sigh.
As it is, you barely hold yourself together.
Every moment you're on the verge of becoming water-
if I stared too hard I feel like you'd disappear.