Stretched from window to window,
ear to ear, symmetrical voices:
when Freud forgot his atlas, he used the telephone.
Innuendo folded in airplanes,
slipped between buildings:
we hoped for a safe landing, a memory planted.
But I could only stay up for so long, wait for your mother
to dress you while the bed became the softest grave.
I fold myself into pockets of memory, my whispers stretched
from window to window in vibrating string.