Four magenta rings, sheathed in jellied casing,
floating between the rocks.

I popped mine on a barnacle - went backwards too fast.
Barely made it to shore before it was nothing but a limp piece of rubber.

The young ones are out there tossing them around.
Mounds of translucent flesh passed from hand to hand.
Touched, squeezed, pressed; watch this trick.

Harmless, they assure me. I'm less convinced.

On the beach, I find one alone.
No color to it.
A prodding finger.
Soft sensation.
A giving way.

Dumb mass of cells.