If I stood

If I stood at the edge
with my throat dry
and paltry
as a mackerel

If I stood there
with a bottle
So common
that I had to
run from it

If I stood at the edge
hips wide as a barrow
neck narrow
as a
channel


If I stood
at the whistling edge

Then would I
angle my love
And my anger too
into that brown blown
bottom

Toes curled
making a fluted wish:

That she who
retrieves
this swept hollow bottle
would not
have to start
again.

Written for Real Toad, Message in a Bottle