Not in a Bottle
lots
of bustling blue suits.
lots
of frothy letters
which hop from lapel to label.
it’s
an oceanic office,
where
no one grasps the comings-and-goings.
liquid
sentences toss and frolic
higgledy-piggledy
unruly
and uncontained.
there
aren’t even bottles to hold the scrolls.
and
yet the rolling, roiling multitudes
wait
and wait and wait
for
a promise that might never have been written.
it’s
hard not to say to myself,
when
i spy some distant clue,
‘is it that one, out there,
atop
the thousandth wave or so?’
then i blink, and must add,
‘now
where did it ship off to?’
maybe
all the posts
torn
and sheering in the flotsam and bluster
are
blank--
nothing
but
little-orphan-annie
eyes
of nameless
accountants
which
open only to close
accounts
that cannot be deactivated.
a
long time hence,
a
preoccupied letter from the ocean
pushed
up bubbles between my toes.
it didn’t
care about foolish things
like
envelopes, postage, or an address.
as
rapidly as i read the letter,
billions
of grains of sand
gobbled
up its foamy pretense.
the
reveal unraveled
even
as i had the urge to articulate
what
had not quite been seen.
with
a snicker,
a
rogue wind rushed the last wisps of
‘Dear
Whimsical Dreamer … ’
away.
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3/2/25 .... mods
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