You were speaking of strings and vibrations, invisible threads so delicate, fine,no one can even prove they exist “But if they do, they think these things might vibrate, connected somehow and alwaysby now I’m distant and your words drowning in the murmur of a cicada's swelling cry “pulsing through everything, through matter andwith your hand on my back your fingers beat soft rhythm on the spine behind my heart “our bodies, through distance, even time, so what does that mean?and there, I can feel something humming like a tangled wad of glowing fibers waxing and waning with the gentle beat “have these strands been moving through us always? a humid daybreak floods your crooked roomI’m looking at the crumbling window,I hear your roommate shuffle in the hall,on the street the traffic begins droning,when the door slams shut and the buzzing stops.Yes, we both know.