A Bottle on the Waters

Whatever I send out of this house
I cast away like a letter in a bottle.
Let it go forth from this place
and stand before you,
let it stand in my stead
like the spear and shield
of seafaring men.
Whatever they beseech on my behalf,
these letters that go forth signed and sealed by my hand,
I will not ask for it openly
from the hand of flesh and blood
because of the disgrace
—as if I had no need of their strong hand
nor the gifts they grant.
And whatever does not leave this house
may wear out swiftly as a moth-eaten garment
with no one to serve
and preserve it, to confer on it
the palpable volume and value of a broken potsherd.
Here I stand, less than the least,
there’s no point in wasting words about it,
composing epithets.
Whatever leaves here like a letter in a bottle
will go forth and pass through the waters,
will go forth, crossing the waters,
be tossed on the waves, swept along in the breakers
and the glass may crack, the bottle
sink down in the sea.
Still, where there’s a bottle tossed into the water,
there’s hope
that the palm of a hand will grasp it, an eye will behold it,
a human being one day will say of it in wonder:
I found a bottle.