The thing I want to talk about but can'twill nonetheless impress on me to try –
it’s not exactly that it doesn't grant
me access to itself, or train my eye
to lead the rest of me to what it wants;
it does, but once I'm there it’s like I'm stuck
awaiting some new pitch: the batter bunts
before I've seen the ball: alas, no luck
in catching it: I wander off again –
in hope that I can play another game
where I'll discover how or where or when
I might find my loved thing a proper name.
I pray one day I'll get it to respond –
instead of flitting, slipping just beyond.