Two unlikely lovers meeting in the dark
—your name. (They meet again.)

                                Your name
is the chatter of a flurry of finches.
It is delicate but practiced as the steps
of the nervous tightrope walker.
Your name—
                                pink toes in May,
or mornings in a Pilsen apartment—
tittering asparagus (in the pan
after the lemon’s hiss.)

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