The thing I want to talk
about but can't
will 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.
.
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