the tune you flew, a string hung taut across sleeping palm, threads my clothesline, loosens, curls into this room to tie sore throats, set them mute, & let them feel together, or at least forget they're not.
string passed right through us, like ghouls do walls & certain skin; gauze, a swallowed curtain, grainy pictures of two moons, all seed our throat with easy song & yes, make us miss us, till we sing along and soothe us.
four minutes have passed from the littlewhilelonger till we see us together, we snap these elastic, crying, quiet nights from two back into one.
Andrew Adair is a poet and translator from Indiana living in Mexico City. He is Editor-at-Large for Mexico at Asymptote Journal and has work in Latin American Literature Today, Waxwing, BrooklynRail, Cheap Pop, and The Hopper. He can be found on Twitter at @a_dear_raw_din.