If you can’t name it, describe it. Scrutinize it.
Walk it, pet it, feed it, stroke its tummy.
For it and that which names it are identical.
Or, rather, it and that which it names are the same.
Whatever. It’s tomayto-tomahto.
A short vowel for the tics, a long one for the fleas.
Either way, perhaps you feel it comprehends just
a bit too much of the arbitrary –
this divination of naming, that is to say.
Don’t worry about it. Just let it come to you.
Maybe she’ll cough it up with her breakfast.
Somewhere inside of her it inheres, windowless,
turning under, in and over upon itself
in a very study of inherence:
the name which, as Eliot says, only she knows.
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