From the distant beach,
he’s finally stopped shouting at me.
I hear only from strangers
who send messages in bottles:
 
        Hi, my name is Jimmy.
        I live in New Jersey.
 
I’ve floated in this ocean for years now.
Whenever I approach a shoreline,
I let the current sweep me out.
 
I eat raw fish and open my mouth
to the rain.   Ships never see me.
 
I sleep all day snuggled in weeds
of the Sargasso sea; at night I recite
whatever I like:
 
        Wordsworth’s Daffodils
        or The Gettysburg Address.
 
I keep hoping for a bottle with a pencil.
There’s a man I want to write to,
if he’s still alive.   I want to tell him:
 
        When I was with you, I was drowning.
        Now I feel safely embraced
        when the hurricane howls my name.