The Quiet Cables

At the ocean's floor, the cables breathe like dark reeds in a slow, tidal lung, cold ink lines humming with distant names, a grammar of light stitched to basalt.

Above them, whales write long cursive arcs, their songs brushing the steel sheaths, as if to test the pulse of a hidden city suspended between continents and sleep.

Divers only visit in brief, bright flare, their bubbles a brief snowfall of silver; they touch the sheath and feel a tremor like a heartbeat buried under sand.

Night after night, the currents polish each word. The seabed keeps its archive of passing voices, and the cables, patient and unlit, carry home the weather of our longing.