I have no reason to put these messages
in blue glass bottles, every day.
I put them in your cold grey ocean
and would say a prayer, but I don't pray.
I don't know who I hope to reach--
who walks or fishes silver tides?
I don't know who I hope to reach--
do you walk, do you pray
in cool november? in budding may?
There is a whale in the north Pacific,
as old as God, who just gave birth;
in a stony nest, on a rainy day
lacking all conviction, while the worst
fill blue glass bottles
with passionate intensity.

Beautiful poem. I can see the bottles floating on the ocean