In Prague tonight a stranger notches his fist in the roots of my hair.

Amidst winding yellow limestone and wrought iron clockwork, there is a Jellyfish Museum.

July haunts my skin heavy-like, briney, wet and heady, yet the sea

is so far away. The man at the museum tells me if you take a jellyfish into space

it will multiply. And also jellyfish grow like spores from the bed of the ocean.

His hand in my hair weighs something fungal.

I wonder what parts of me are shedding my spores here, what might reveal itself

unexpectedly one day. We never truly leave a place. The stars are bright and swimming.

Take this as an apology to you, for this hand on my body. I tossed a letter in a jar into the sky.

How strange to be so far, so new. And yet summer stays the same.