The Rising (Tebenkov Bay)
Through an archway you might glide,
unaware that a distant instrument
marks your arrival,
measures you excitedly but poorly
like frail pins of a seismograph
set into the wings of a ballet stage
to gauge Stravinsky’s genius
by a Firebird’s leap.
A meadow of jellyfish
blooms by hundreds
around our kayaks,
colored like peonies
face down, fluttering.
They never break the surface
but stretch it impossibly,
not caring that we
hover in their sky.
None of us breathe
as they rise.
When we rise,
what stops for a moment
amid a whirl of instruments
and holds its breath?