SOME SORT OF ECHO

I sometimes wonder if they still remember what I remember,
Or, if they’re all dead by now, if their DNA would register a certain
New Year’s morning in the Honmoko, cold, waking up, six in a bed,
Somebody’s feet in your face, the girl bringing in another bottle of wine,
And everybody getting slowly drunk again.  And why not?
What lies ahead of us?  Or behind?  The world is in Creation, only.
I dive, expecting pearls.