it washed up on the shore
on the path you walk each morning
through the stones and sand and salt
lying there, weakly
saturated and bleeding

a bundle
soaked manifests in the sand
of a distant voyage
destination, unknown
records, illegible
vestiges of travels gone by

pick it up and flip through the lines
brush grit from the names
and resolve something out of the words
washed blank with seawater

squinting at the smeared letters
and empty final pages
you wonder if the passengers survived