Under the Kelp, a Telegraph

On the ocean floor the cables lie like black vines, anemones fold their hands around the current, messages travel as light, a quiet storm.

A diver's lamp sweeps the silt, revealing coils where the tide writes slow cursive, the whales read in pressure, in bone.

Above, a storm erases the horizon, yet the wire keeps its vow to distance, braiding two cities into a single pulse.

At dawn the surface is glass and oil, I hold my phone like a shell to my ear, and hear the deep, rehearsing our names.