Faces and names warm waves kept washing in,
Decades of faces that recur, no matter
If names don’t surface, drowned out now, unlike
Their words and voiceprints—counsel, banter, twists
Of phrasing still heard even if the speakers
Have slipped away in some rough undertow,
Departures now confirmed or probable,
Given how many rising tides have fallen.
The psyche: a kind of twine, a cordage spun
Of optic fibre drawn from a thousand minds—
Strands this instant wondering if yarns
Of mine in turn wound up in others’ cable,
A hawser mooring then to now and selves
Whose face and words remain, if not their names.