Bottles
I’d blog in a bottle, if I could—
from the bottom of a quart of a lime-stuffed
while slurping it up inside out.
Never hit anybody with a bottle.
Held one tightly once, in a bar, to better smash someone’s head.
But the offender smiled at the last instant and
my grip loosened as we shook
hands (with free hands) and laughed instead.
Never thought about collecting, owning bottles,
never considered them anything to prize or to display.
Initially thought of them just as containers—keepers of volume.
Until I found, as a child, filled with air
they shoot in a watery salute
like rapidly ascending submarines
from tub’s nether bottom to micro-ocean’s surface.
Always thought ships in a bottle were stupid
especially after my childhood sub-realization that bottles were ships.
Why would you ever put a leash on a leash?
Or lock combination locks in a safe?
Was always enchanted by the notion of messages in a bottle.
Came to believe that true lovers –distant- would always,
if practicalities permitted,
come(m)union with each other just so.
Had a message in a bottle wash-up in the middle of my night:
Love you my deer-whispering
god of all things
sensual.
After born of sunrise, dispatched a bottled-message back:
Your sensual deer-whisperer
wishes his sexy god-pleasing baby
a good morning.
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