"The poem resembles a bottle" [sonnet, semi-Petrarchan]

You can't insist   that others enjoy your poetry!
who could compel the mist   to applaud the flowers?
I wouldn't suppose   another perceives what penury
lately rims the brocaded yardage of swaddling hours

the poem resembles a bottle cast on the brine
containing the tale of a consciousness gone aground
one's private isle!   green glass is washed supine
by currents whose key strange destiny may've found

the very form of the poem achieves the seal
to keep the text contained   so when it's read
this opens the bottle   if reading might reveal

what letter an islander stowed   what has he said?
he broods at palmtrees   and an old worsted keel
while God alone knows   how an alien life he's led!