Names are stand-ins, shadows in place of objects.
Someone dipped a clumsy finger in the paint
and traced where you're supposed to live.
I feel like I should have seen you before,
when the required talons snipped
at the whitened edges of fresh photographs.
Somehow, you are unfamiliar, a body composed
of wire and plastic. Waking up in a cold bed,
your name becomes shell, lamina.
I'm supposed to give in to conflicting images,
be certain of the smoke which exaggerates your form,
but I have no idea who you are or what to call you.
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