Bottled

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How nice a bottle can become.
Unchanged by its environment
with bubbles fixed preserved.
Sticking itself to the one job we
made it for - cheering the people,
for you and for me. For hordes 
of humans, for hundreds of years
in the sea, for humid days hidden
on a forgotten shelf holding on
to the thirst of a heat struck day.

. . .

I emptied the brandy then gave
into the pen which spelled them
bottled words, spilled every year.
Stuffed a tearful note into the
chamber and placed the brandy
on the railing, waiting, letting
the wind decide when it's time
for the seas to gain a kryptonite.
How nice a bottle can become - 
captured years - a sodden life.

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A. Evensen