Longneck bottle
cast in the weeds
along the old river
walk. Brown glass
in summer-brown grass,
I wonder why
it caught your eye.

Long-necked bird,
swan at the foot of the bay.
My daughter called me
the cob
from The Trumpet and the Swan.
I don’t know
what that means.

Raise the bottle to your eye
like a spyglass.
Sometimes you can see more
through the other one, closed,
imprinted with the recent past
by the unblinking illumination
of the sun.

Your hands grasp the shaft,
pull it to your lips,
you swallow, open-throated.

Your long neck,
your bare white throat,
connector of body and mind,

organ of speech
and song and sigh,
origin of poetry.

About Ray Sharp

Poet, athlete, retired public health planner
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