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I walk, slowly,
without aim or trepidation,
and across the forecast of my steps
she measures cautious glances,

Day again and I see her,
neighbor but for silence
wherein each broken smile
caresses the eternity
standing twixt our paths.

Living but a few paces apart
for longer than measure can foretell,
each watching the other
in private wonder
chancing not the air
to suffer our shy intercourse.

What is your name
shy sister, whose eyes
plunge into my heart
at every whisper of their touch,
and toss there
every tenant of reason?

In the darkest rain,
  or the coldest dew,
your sight fills the heavens
with etherial radiance,
warming my dampen collar,
lifting light
  from the corners of the world.

And yet, I run from your acquaintance
and stall the promise of your touch,
as though these held for me
a most horrible consumption,
                    or happiness,
which I mindless must flee.

Strange this is,
to find
I love you;
and yet admit
I do not know
your name.

© hok, September 16, 1993