A Ship in a Bottle

All of the arts of illusion are like this:
even crafting the poem which steers the flat hulk
of words through its narrow neck then lofts
mainsails by manipulating strings, exerting
influence.

The question is always why it should
be done, since it changes nothing. And who
needs it? Not even the bibulous sailor
training his hand to be steady.

Perhaps another,
quite different metaphysic. That no vessel
functions when empty. To transfer its dreams
calls for a compensation. There is the sticky sea -
unlikely composite of paint and putty -
on which the clipper preens. A lighthouse
and two rictus stricken palms: and the daubed sky
on which fine brush-strokes freeze like gulls
seeking conviction.

The bottle's a sense of form
that calls for cargo. The clumsy gulls a giveaway.
Credulity wasn't the goal. Illusion is
a concern with the unlikely, not with needs.
And the bottle has had the first word in defining
both, if not the last.

Hold the breath while the final
loop of bright vowels settles inside. We know
it is only a whisper trapped in a bubble of glass.
No real magic. And we are still ourselves.
Toss the message into the tide. It may bring relief.

- Louis Johnson, 1983