How more likely a note in a bottle
than these May words will reach you
from the desert from this estuary
of the empire to you four hundred
years from now in the vise grip
of disease famine helplessness
as yet unknown in the world
who needs to be a prophet
to see the bridge is out toward
which we hurtle the driver nodding off
here’s the divinity of the world I remind
you we the dead still see and
to give you this picture of my old field
of blooming wild flowers to hold for me.