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17 cOme with me Beneath the simmering moon, one phase off full, perhaps— for our work round and rich enough. Ignore the flight to Bombay or Sri Lanka. Let the new year begin here. We’ll resolve if violet sky is velvet or bruise. Stand with me where lunging bats, wide as our two spread hands, break the lake into dark circles. The black peripheral trill, near collision and spinning rapture— too much spin, you say, to believe? Listen: Long before we met I longed to bring you to this place. Hear bamboo acrobatic above our heads? Don’t be afraid. Bats specialize in frantic hunger. Tonight, I promise your new name— Monisha, Deeha, Shanti?— when again the moment arrives to speak. Come. Trust me. Not even a whisper now. Be still. Just our shared breathing, ignited in the feasting night. ...

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