already i must scramble
to remember the sound of your voice,
its faint echo a warbled, static-busted
radio, & me pulling at the antenna,
bent against one star
and the next. my fingers slow-turning
the grooves of the dial,
hoping to find your right
frequency. if i leaned backside
out of a window, your laugh would become
a bird floating belly up,
and the sky a ground 
neither of us can grasp.