It is as in the deep a silken tent,
yet vagabond, without a central stay.
Adrift in its capricious element,
where currents play it finds its silent way.
It floats all dreamless through the star struck night.
If something like a dance it does, it knows
no step and nothing of enchantment’s might
though phosphorescent from within it glows.
Between wet and wet it’s sheer filament.
It seems a ghostly rag, stolen from fog,
this pale aimless form, home to no intent,
white jellyfish, inexplicable cog.
The close stitched seams, the catenaries sweet:
What knows no enclosing meets no defeat.
1977